


Reflections

by Cordelias_Soliloquy



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Character Study, Gen, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Needs a Hug, Norse Myths & Legends, Plotty, Post Avengers (Movie), Sad Ending, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 84,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cordelias_Soliloquy/pseuds/Cordelias_Soliloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is used to uninvited guests--the reporters, the desperate fan, an enemy or two--but this is different, and he is not sure exactly what to do. Two years after their battle with the chitauri, Tony invites his fellow Avengers to a Stark Industries benefit at an art museum in celebration of their successful crime fighting, only to encounter an uninvited guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uploaded from ff net.

     Tony rolls his eyes. Even in custom tailored suits, camouflaged and mingled in a writhing mass of partygoers, the Avengers stick out like sore thumbs—a bunch of misfits in monkey-suits, trying not to stand out. Steve fingers the hem of his collar, tugging on the fabric, smiling stiffly as a group of important looking people pass him. Banner lingers to the side, leaning against a wall, ever the social butterfly. Thor, on the other hand, is considerably less awkward, shaking hands with people who approach him, though he does not seem to be his lively, vibrant self. But, Tony ponders, Thor hasn’t really been ‘yea verily’ in a while.

     “You need to rescue them.” Pepper whispers as she slides past him, fingers brushing his back. She looks stunning in a black dress.

     Tony gives an amused snort. “The worlds greatest heroes--bester of demigods and criminal masterminds--need saving from a party?”

     The corners of Pepper’s lips tug upward as Stark pulls her closer, taking her hand in his. She playfully escapes his grasp, dancing out of his reach. “You, Mr. Stark, need to address all those reporters and guests about your latest accomplishment.”

     “You know, finding those stolen pieces of art was a happy accident but, sure, I’ll take the credit.” It had been an accident, really. Hulk had smashed through a false wall during a fight with a baddie. Thor had been absent, away in Asgard, ironically. He would have thought that Thor of all people—gods—whatever, would have been interested in finding Norse relics and mythology related artwork. 

     “It’ll look good. Iron Man, defending against evil and art thieves—a true hero.”

     “Exactly.” He watches her as she meanders masterfully through the crowd. He glances around, looking for the refreshments. “Oh, and, uh, be in my office later. You know,  _paperwork_  to sign, all that.” 

     Pepper winks, vanishing in the crowd.

     The building is extravagantly beautiful, to say the least. Towering stone columns, glossy marble floors, polished and clean enough to eat off its surface.  Pepper has outdone herself; Tony decides, from the skilled, yet ridiculously expensive decorating team, to the fantastic catering.  The event definitely has Tony’s seal of approval as a Stark Industries benefit. The newest addition to the art museum, featuring the Norse mythology based artwork, is roped off by red velvet, sealed off and dimmed until the grand reveal at the end of the night.   

     Steve, Thor, and Bruce have also been invited in honor of their two years of protecting the city as the Avengers. Natasha is lurking somewhere, as well as Clint, but they have opted to be there as security should anything go wrong, not as their civilian identities. Tony occasionally catches a glimpse of Natasha, clothed in a sexy red dress and heels, but he has yet to see Clint, though he feels he isn’t looking high enough. 

     The flashes of cameras and bulbs of hanging chandlers bounce oddly off of the floors reflection, casting light in all directions, painting the walls, and dancing across the faces. The sound echoes strangely in the expansive room, underwater, distorted. It makes Tony feel dizzy.  

     Tony skirts past a group, making a beeline for one of the tuxedoed waiters carrying glasses of champagne, past the roped off hallway. The idea of roaming around a darkened museum had always intrigued Tony as a child. He had once thought of running away and camping out in one. It would be a grand adventure, sleeping by the ancient Egyptian artifacts, the fake tomb, or in one of the Queen’s lavish beds. Now that he was facing the darkened, roped off room of the new exhibit, he thought of how stupid that old idea was. It was kind of eerie, the dimmed exhibit.

     “Care for a glass of champagne, sir?”

     Tony turns, facing the suited waiter. In his musings, he has forgotten about the drinks. That was funny. “Four, actually.”   

The waiter gives him a look, but hands over four glasses.

     “Don’t worry. They’re not all for me.”

     “Of course.”

     Tony skillfully balances all four glasses, the cool stems perched between his fingers, little drops of due rolling down his hands from the sweating glasses, bubbles hissing. Now to rescue the Avengers from a social event. He is making his way over to the Island of Misfit Toys when he feels someone bump into him. It is a light pressure against his shoulder, almost like fingertips, delicate, almost cold to the touch.  

     “I think I’ll take you up on your drink offer, Stark.”

     Tony freezes for a moment before spinning around to face the source, the hot breath in his ear, the familiar silky voice. He turns, but no one is there behind him, only a few guests some feet away. He catches a reflection in the marble floor, in the pale shimmering sequins of a party dress, in the glass of champagne—a flash of green. One of his glasses is missing, plucked from his fingers. The corners of Tony’s mouth tug downward, brow creasing. He decides to have a little chat with the God of Thunder before alerting the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Chills roll down his back.

     “…I had the bilge snipe in a headlock, and then I—“

     Tony sidles up to Steve and Thor, who were obviously in the middle of retelling old battle stories to each other. How cute. “Thor, honey, we need to talk.”  

     Thor eyes him, the plastered grin on the god’s face fading only slightly. There is a flicker of something, only a flash of some other emotion in those blue eyes, but Tony catches it.  “Good greetings, Stark. Ah, you have brought us beverages.”  

     Rogers grimaces. “You know I can’t get drunk, Tony.” He takes the glass anyway.

     Bruce glances at the group, edging closer, bushy eyebrows knitting together. He adjusts his black silk tie, eyes darting between the Avengers. “What, I don’t get a drink?” Banner teases lightly.

     Tony, pale-faced, stares down at the last glass in his hand, one glass less than he should have. He smacks his lips together, swishes the sparkling liquid, and hesitantly hands the glass over to Bruce. “Here, have it.” Silence.  

     “Does this mean you’re quitting?” Steve, serious, as usual.

     “No, actually, Cap. I was going to have a drink, but someone spirited it away from me.”  

     “What—”   

     “I’m going to alert Clint and Natasha, but I want to let Thor know first. We have an issue.”  

     Thor steps forward, expression strained. “What is this issue of which you speak, and how, pray tell, does it pertain to me?”   

     Tony sighs. He might as well just say it outright. “Loki’s here. I saw him.” 

     “What? Where?”

     “Wait—I thought Loki was in Asgardian prison after the attack on New York two years ago. How did-”  

     Thor, Tony has noticed in the few years of knowing him, is someone who cannot, no matter how hard they try, hide their emotions. Thor has always worn his heart on his sleeve. He recalls seeing his entire being light up when Jane is near. An entire range of emotions flicker, quick-silver flashes, across Thor’s face. Sorrow, guilt, anger, worry—a flipbook of thoughts and feelings. It is exhausting to watch.   

     Silence.

     “Son of a—” Tony is the first to speak after Thor’s cryptic confession. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he was here on earth.” His voice isn’t exactly accusatory, more stating a fact.

     Steve gapes, eyes wide, but he does not comment on Tony’s observation. “Should we evacuate?” He lowers his voice because people have taken notice of the group of superheroes and he doesn’t want to start a panic. He is reaching for a clip on his belt, the one holding a S.H.I.E.L.D communicator.

    “So, he escaped, right?” Bruce’s calm voice cuts through the tension, soothing.

     Tony and the others watch as Thor’s head lowers, blonde sunshine waves of hair falling over his face, shielding him from their gazes. “I freed him.” He pauses, clasping large hands together. “I ask not for your approval, merely understanding. You must understand, punishments for crimes on Asgard are very different from those on Midgard. There are realms in which time moves at a pace most unnatural, a century there would be a year on your realm.” He clears his throat, looking back up at his friends, straight at Tony. “I—I did not agree with my father’s method of punishing Loki. After a year, I freed my brother from his bonds, against my father’s will. I have been keeping him hidden and away from the mortals in a hotel room. He is without his sorcery—he has been in a vegetative state until a few weeks ago.”   

     The rest of the group has remained quiet throughout Thor’s vague summary of events, exchanging glances, fidgeting, unconsciously fingering their earpieces. Tony wants to protest, to say that Loki deserved whatever punishment his father had doled out. Loki had killed people—nearly killed Coulson for God’s sake. He says nothing, because of the horror in Thor’s eyes, the pain—because Tony, of all people, should know.

     As if sensing Tony’s thoughts, Thor spoke again. “I feel there are some fates that I would not wish on the most wicked of men.”      

     The others exchange glances, but no one asks for details, and frankly they don’t think they want to know.

     “What do you want us to do?” Bruce’s voice, solemn. “He’s dangerous—magic or no magic, Thor. There are civilians.”    

     “Please, I beg you not to inform S.H.I.E.L.D. I fear what they will do to him if he is captured. I must find him and return him to his room. I know I should not ask you to preform such an act, but—”

     “Split up.” Steve says, now in Captain America’s strong, yet reassuring voice.

     Tony nods, “Let’s find Hurt Locker before--well, before something happens.”  

     Without another word, the group disbands, heading off in different directions. Tony follows them with his eyes as one-by-one they weave through the crowd.  Tony needs a drink. Honestly, he does not want to be the one to find the crazy trickster god, yet, somehow, he realizes exactly where to look. He ducks under velvet ropes of crimson, into the abyss.  

     Loki stands, hands folded behind his back, lean and haggard looking, draped in a silken shirt of deep green, black slacks hanging limply on his thin form. Ebony hair slicked back in the usual style, though it’s been cut shorter, raggedly. He looks ill, almost emaciated. Even in the dim light of the Norse exhibit, Tony can see just how different the god looked from their last encounter two years ago. The difference is shocking. He is examining a painting. Tony thinks he’s got some nerve sneaking into a building where all of the Avengers are, especially after how he ended up after their last encounter.  “I thought I’d find you here.”

     “Magnificent, is it not?” The God of Mischief asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. He gestures to an oil painting. The little gold plate reads:  _The God Thor Fights the Giants_. Interesting. Tony’s stomach drops only slightly.

     “Eh,” Tony raises an eyebrow, shoulders rising and falling lightly, corners of lips tugging downward, “A little too dramatic—kind of has a death metal vibe.” He walks forward, shoes clicking softly against the new marble. “The hair is a little too 80’s.”

     Loki makes a small noise of amusement, takes a sip of his champagne. So that’s where his glass went. The god of mischief then moves on to _Valhalla_. Tony slowly edges back a few steps, one hand on unconsciously tracing the rim of his Arc Reactor.   

     “Not even with all their imagination, nor skill, can mortals capture the glorious elegance of that hallowed place. This—this is a poor rendition—a ghastly mocking stratagem of it’s true visage.” His laugh is bitter, practically spitting venom. Tony watches as Loki half-turns to him, pale jade eyes glazed over, like he is somewhere else, far away from earth. He looks almost sorrowful, but it’s gone in an instant.  

     “This ones not so bad. I like it.” Tony folds his arms across his chest, walks forward, motions to the  _Snaptun Stone_. Tony’s not really lying—it is an interesting piece, a figure carved in orange into the stone surface, a face, obviously, with strange x’s over it’s mouth. He eyes the stone, remarking “Nice conversation piece. I could see it in Stark Tower.”  

     For the first time Loki turns to face him fully, green eyes bright and hungry despite the dark bruising circles that surround them. “That it is.”  

     “Brother.” They both turn.  “Brother, we must return you to your room. You cannot be spotted.” Thor has arrived, relief flooding his voice.  

     Loki frowns, shirking back slightly, twirling the champagne glass between long slender fingers. He smirks at Stark, handing him his empty glass. “I thank you for the drink, Stark.”  

     As Thor leaves, guiding his little brother along by his forearm, Loki turns around and winks. Tony watches Thor’s large frame bend protectively around his brother’s broken form, shielding him, protecting him from any watchful eyes as they duck out from the room, under the ropes, through the side exit. Tony fiddles with the glass, lost in thought.  

     “And now for the grand opening of the museum’s newest and most intriguing exhibit--” A bodiless voice, Pepper, announces through a microphone out in the lobby. Tony can hear people shifting just outside of the ropes, murmuring excitedly. The lights flick on, the barriers fall, and suddenly Tony is a blinking, eyes blinded by white spots, deer in the headlights.  

     “The Norse mythology based—oh my god--”

     There are gasps of surprise, awe, and confusion. Tony turns, still standing in the now lit exhibit, to find himself staring at what everyone else is staring at—the paintings that are literally melting onto the floor in puddles of paint and molten gold. Colors mix, dripping down like they’ve been freshly painted. Valhalla droops to the floor with a disgusting sluggish ‘plop.’ Tony watches, alarmed but impressed, as the paintings melt before his eyes. _No magic, right._

     When Tony returns home to Stark Tower later that night, with an inconsolable Pepper, the stone is sitting on his coffee table.  


	2. Chapter 2

“You seen Thor lately?”

Tony is sprawled on one of his many leather couches, lazily tossing a rubber-band ball at the wall opposite of him and catching it in cupped hands. He can never seem to remain completely still or immobile even for a moment, always has to be doing something with his hands, tinkering with his technology, tapping fingers. He wonders absently if he has an attention disorder of some kind—the kind of disorder that shrinks slap on any kid that misbehaves or fails a test, to soothe parents. He figures it’s a super-genius thing.

Tony rolls over, never stopping his throwing and catching pace, eyes flicking up to Steve, who is waiting for an answer. Tony bites back a smirk at Cap’s usual hand-on-hips-I’m-a-concerned-mother pose. This should be good. “Nope. Can’t say I have—and I don’t blame him,” Tony pauses, shifting his sprained foot atop a pillow, “after we got our asses handed to us by Taskmaster—before we won.”

Steve shuffles from one foot to the other, thick arms folded across his chest. He says nothing for a while, letting his eyes wander around the lavish room, across sleek flooring and sharp edges of furniture.

Tony sits up further, one eyebrow raised. “You know, I get the feeling that something’s on your mind, Captain—must be the staring into space and that cute nervous fidget you do.” He gets a rhythm going with the bouncing ball, faster paced, filling the silence with noise. There was that too—Tony’s constant need for noise, sounds, music. “So what is it, Cap? Tell me. Two million for your thoughts?”

Steve frowns. “It’s just that Thor’s absences from Stark Tower seem to be for frequent, that’s all, and I can’t help thinking it has something to do with Loki.”

The rubber ball misses Tony’s blossomed hands and bounces off of the couch, rolling with a dull purring sound across the floor. Oh, that. Tony sits up fully now, propping himself up on his elbows, wincing slightly. “Have you gone to the God Of Thunder with your little theory?” He makes wild hand gestures as he talks, flippant. “He’s probably just hanging with Jane. If I had a hot scientist for a for a girlfriend, that’s where I’d be—not with my deranged and homicidal adopted-brother.”

Steve considers this for a moment, shaking his head lightly, blond hair catching the light. “But Thor’s not like you.”

Tony mirrors Steve. “No. He’s not.” Tony snorts, running a hand through his head of dark matted waves. He laughs lightly, but it holds no humor. “No—you’re right. Thor’s naïve—guilble—too forgiving. Not like me at all.” He folds his hands together, pressing them to his chin, thumbing stubble. God—when Tony found out that Thor had freed Loki, he had thought he was stupid and insane for doing so. But that was who Thor is—someone who has to believe the best in everyone—that people can change—that there’s good in everyone. Tony hadn’t known whether to laugh or to cry when Thor told him he’d been nursing Loki—the god who apparently wanted to murder him—back to health. Tony figures that it’s something he’ll never understand—and frankly, he doesn’t think he wants to.

“Do you think we should alert S.H.I.E.L.D?” Steve finally asks, breaking Tony from his revere. “I mean, he’s dangerous. Keeping him in a hotel room, or whatever Thor said, is like trying to contain an explosion. It can’t end well for anyone.”

“No. We promised Thor we wouldn’t tattle, as fun as it would be to see the look on Fury’s face—let’s just say he’d live up to his name.”

“You’re not concerned at all?”

“Not really—”

 _“Sir,”_ JARVIS interrupts calmly. _“My scanning of the Snaptun Stone is complete. There appear to be faint traces of energy surrounding it. Should I research further?”_

Steve is still looking up at the ceiling like he always does when Tony’s AI speaks, like he’s receiving word from God himself. He turns to Tony, jaw working. “Right. You’re not concerned at all.”

Tony’s lips pucker slightly and he rolls his eyes. “Just a safety precaution, Cap.”

“I can’t believe you actually kept that ugly thing.”

“Sure thing, JARVIS, knock yourself out.”

Pepper took one look at the stone that night after the museum fiasco and demanded the ‘creepy thing’ to be taken back, hidden away, or thrown in the garbage. Tony had, for reasons unknown to him, opted for option two and had hidden it in one of the many storage cabinets in the house. He still has no idea why he had decided to keep it, seeing as how a mentally unstable, cat-brained lunatic had given it to him, but he sees no harm in it. He rather likes it—the stone.

Tony stands to his feet, balancing himself and reaching for his makeshift crutch so that his sprained foot is elevated. He can see the stone out of the corner of his eye, through the glass door of the cabinet, orange standing out against the brown. He stops suddenly, halfway to the kitchen area. He turns to Cap, who is staring morosely at the microwave. “You know what? I think I’ll ask our Thunder God about his day trips. I’m working on an idea, a crazy idea that’s likely to piss off S.H.I.E.L.D and possibly get us killed.”

A small, hesitant smile tugs on the corners of Steve’s lips. “Don’t all your ideas lead to that?”

* * *

 

Tony hovers high above the ground, the mass of concrete and metal glinting and sizzling in the light—waves of heat radiating, stifling. Repulsors flicker, making Stark bob slightly in the air like a ship on water. “Why couldn’t the Not-So-Jolly Green Giant wait until this heat wave passed to attack—I mean, come on, I’m frying in here, and I have air condition-” His words are cut short as Abomination soars through the sky, bellowing, fists raised, and plows into the Hulk, crumbling a good chuck a building.

”Tony—” Steve’s voice in his earpiece, strained, “We could really use a little thunder at the moment. Any word from Thor yet?”

”JARVIS—”

_”Already contacting his communicator, sir.”_

Tony huffs out a breath, rolls his shoulders. He’s definitely going to be feeling the consequences of this particular fight days to come. He spins in the air, gaining momentum, armor reflecting and refracting the sun. Thor’s contact information and picture appear on the holographic display in the corner— in the center a target aimed right at Abomination— who, at the moment, is busy pounding Hulk’s face into the roof. He smirks as the target locks and the sky is suddenly buzzing with tiny rockets—insect-like in a way, and then an array of tiny explosions colliding with the mutant’s hide. The howl tells him that it at least hurt a little—probably no more than a paper cut to a guy like that.

Volleys of explosive arrows shoot through the sky, whizzing past Stark and hitting the beast. Natasha is close behind with her bullets. Hulk gets up and charges, colliding with the equally massive green mammoth.

Thor’s picture disappears as the call in disconnected and Tony hisses through gritted teeth. Poor Thor, Tony thinks—he’s most likely going to have to endure a “teamwork” lecture from Steve when he finally arrives. He smiles when he thinks of Cap telling Thor that he’s grounded.

Tony dives as Abomination swings his massive arms, nearly crushing Captain America, who skillfully rolls out of the way. He lands next to Steve, metal clanging against stone, and nods in the soldier’s direction. Tony and Steve both go at the bad guy now, shield flying, repulsors shooting.

”This guy just won’t let up, will he?” Steve catches his shield in midair and jumps back, teeth clicking together as a punch from Abomination rocks the ground. He wipes at the sweat that trails down his face, eyes watering from it. “I don’t think we can take much more of this. Try Thor again.”

Tony waits. Sighs. “JARVIS?”

_”Sir?”_

“Thor, God of Thunder— I mean really, you need to be more consistent— first you inturrupt me, saying that it’s already done, now—”

“ _Calling now, Sir.”_ JARVIS is just as cheeky— well, as cheeky as a robotic voice can be. Tony snorts, amused.

”Stark— watch out—”

Tony is suddenly summersaulting, spinning, rolling, scraping against the concrete, armor groaning, sparks flying. The force of the blow to his chest from Abomination’s fist is staggering, armor dinted like a soup can, completely knocking the wind out of him. His screen flickers and he sucks in a breath, scrambling to get back on his feet and into the air as he hears a roar and pounding footsteps closer. ”Son of a—” Tony wheezes, repulsors sparking to life as he shoots into the sky once more, just missing Abomination’s wrath.

”I’m calling a retreat—” Steve’s voice in his ear.

Darkness covers the landscape. At first Tony thinks it’s from the force of the punch, that his sight is failing or that he’s losing consciousness--but when he looks up, neck grinding, he can see clouds forming in the once blue and unforgiving sky. Lightning flash, thunder clap, the air crackling with electricity— Abomination plows through rubble as a flash of red and silver makes contact with him, Mjolnir pounding, humming and illuminated.

After the initial shock wares off, the battle does not last much longer. With their combined efforts, the team manages to render the beast immobile and leave him to S.H.I.E.L.D to do with him what they will. Tony collapses on a chunk of cement, still disoriented from the blow. “Clean up on aisle five,” Tony whistles, glancing around at the damage, “Jeez.”

The clouds have dissipated at this point, leaving the temperature as sweltering as ever. Tony sighs and removes his helmet, watching as the team regroups on the building, a quinjet waiting in the wings to take them back to the tower. Thor saunters over, kicking at rubble, clasping Mjorlnir to his belt. “I’d be nice if you could summon a rain storm or a cold front, if it’s not too much trouble.” Tony runs a hand through his damp hair.

Thor laughs deeply, folding thick arms. “Ah, this is nothing compared to the fires of Muspelheim, my friend.”

Tony grunts as he stands to his feet, wiping plaster dust from the surface of his suit. A smile twitches on his lips. “Nice timing there, big guy. I mean, we could have handled the dude without you, but…”

Thor’s expression darkens somewhat, mimicking the sky that had blackened at his command. “I am deeply sorry, Stark, for my absence as of late. It will not be a reoccurring behavior. I had business to attend to—other worldly business.”

Tony nods as if he’s able to relate. “No biggie— at least to me it isn’t— I’m afraid Cap will have to lecture you about the importance of communication and teamwork though. Sorry, it’s pretty much unavoidable.”

Thor bows his head, a halo of gold glinting in his hair. “Let us return to the tower then, and celebrate our victory.”

Tony’s brows knit together as he and Thor rejoin the rest of the team— Bruce Banner currently dressing himself clumsily in the back of the jet— when he spots a peculiar mark on the god’s forearm. He raises an eyebrow. That’s odd.

* * *

 

”Oh, no,” Bruce’s voice, steady and calm, “No— no, I am not getting involved in this. Thor’s personal life is none of my concern, Tony. What he does away from the tower is completely up to him—”

Tony leans across the counter, one hand still working a holographic screen, sending off information to Bruce’s side of the lab. His fingers dance in the air, blue light growing. He slouches, resting his back against the wall as the computer technology begins whirring.

 _“Scan complete, Sir. The malady in question appears to be an extreme case of frostbite._ ”

Pushing his glasses up further on his noes, Bruce shoots Tony a disapproving look.

”Thanks, JARVIS.” Stark hoists himself up onto the counter, wary of his still sore ankle and now his cracked ribs, and shrugs nonchalantly, “Hey, I’m naturally curious. Say, Doctor, how does one contract frostbite during the biggest heat wave New York has ever seen? You ever heard of anything like that, or is that not a little suspicious to you?”

Banner pinches the bridge of his noes, closing his eyes and letting out a groan. “He did say he had been dealing with other realms, Tony— I dunno, maybe he went to an ice realm— or maybe he had a disagreement with the freezer.”

”Or maybe it has something to do with— oh, I don’t know, Banner— Thor’s magic-happy, war criminal brother?”

”You sound as paranoid as Rogers, Stark.”

Tony gestures wildly with his hands, eyes wide. “You’re not concerned at all that Loki’s here on earth, the planet that he wanted to make into his own personal thrown? Forgive me, Banner, but I’m a bit skeptical of Thor’s ‘no magic’ story— I mean, you saw what he did to that exhibit—”

Bruce runs a hand through his dark curls, shaking his head. “You have a point, I’ll admit, but Thor promised us he had everything under control— and we promised not to get S.H.I.E.L.D involved.” He returned to the screen, pressing buttons, transferring information. “Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about. He seems to like you, Loki, I mean.”

Tony laughs incredulously, shuffling backwards in the direction of the bar. “Likes me? What makes you think that? Yeah, likes to throw me out windows.”

Bruce makes a face and casually pulls up a scan of the Snaptun Stone and enlarges it. “Likes to give you expensive gifts, too.” He teases, though he was a curious expression on his face. “Why’d you keep it, anyway?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to make a face. He has his back to Banner, fixing them both a glass of Jack Daniels. Tony walks back to the lab station, drinks in hand, and slides one over to Bruce. “I thought it might be useful someday.”

* * *

 

Tony Stark has been to many hotels in his life. He has met officials, business partners, and visitors to the city in the lobbies— grand hotels with polished marble floors and forty stories and free bathrobes. He has spent the night in many— sometimes with a woman, other times alone and intoxicated. He has not, however, stepped foot inside a hotel of such low quality—a dump of a hotel that makes his skin crawl—and certainly not with a God of Thunder.

”I feel like a whore. A cheap whore.” Thor ignores Tony’s comments. He is lead down a series of hallways with horrible red floral carpeting. He feels that any second now a creepy child on a tricycle will roll right on past him, followed by a man in a bear suit. He never understood the purpose of including the bear suit in The Shining—It was just strange and very disturbing. The sunglasses come off now that he’s out of the public’s eye, seeing as how empty the hotel hallways are.

”I advise you to prepare yourself, Stark. I know not the condition my brother will be in, and I am afraid that...” The golden-haired god trails off, expression somber.

”You know, I’m kind of regretting confronting you right about now.” That was true, but Tony’s interest was still slightly intact. After his conversation with Bruce, and a little science party after that, Tony had sought out Thor in the gym, only to find, oddly enough, that Steve was already there, asking him the very questions Tony had planned on inquiring about. Funny. It turned out that tag-teaming Thor worked, and he had eventually agreed to reveal to them the mystery of the frostbite and his absence.

“I require your word as gentlemen that you will not inform S.H.I.E.L.D.” Thor had pleaded, which sounded frustratingly pitiful even with his deep voice and thick accent. “And please, I fear that more than one guest will overwhelm Loki—I must ask only one of you to follow me.”

And so, here was Tony, standing in front of a room door with crooked numbers. The first thing Tony notices when Thor unlocks the door—besides the dismantled furniture that is strewn about—is the sudden and utterly bitter chill that greats him with an icy embrace—the cold breath of winter. His breath collects around his lips in a frantic mist. The second thing Tony notices is the over-sized smurf curled up in the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony has never been one for literature. In fact—though he doesn’t like to admit it—it’s the old cliché. One whom excels in science and mathematics—super genius billionaire, in his case—generally has a tough time with, say, poetry, and turning in essays on Keats and Joyce with the required page length. Tony is, however, familiar with a very small number of short stories. For some reason, one of these short stories comes to his mind now—it hovers there, in the corner of his mind like a forgotten dream, an obscure fragment of memory, simmering. The Bet, by Aton Chekov.

As Tony stands in the doorway, thumbs his beard absently, watching in a mixture of shock and a surreal kind of almost horror as Thor tries to calm the trembling blue creature, mist collecting around his breath in panicked puffs, he remembers. Never truly understanding the meaning behind the story, Tony had filed it away in a dust folder in his mind--the same place he kept boring business meetings and the things people told him to do throughout the day—trivial, useless things. Tony doesn’t know if it’s the sharp sting of the cold room--the kind that makes his teeth ache—but he is hit with a revelation about the Chekov story that his English professor had swooned over. He knows what it means, for he sees it before his very eyes.

The story of the man who—after making a bet that required him to live in solitude for fifteen years, to prove that it was a better alternative for capital punishment than death--had gained all the knowledge he could have ever wanted to with his free time, but had lost his sanity. He had lost his will to live. Life was rendered meaningless to him. Death had been a better alternative. This—this creature before him is made of the same, hopeless essence--a man who has lost everything. A broken man—no, more than broken.

”I require your assistance, Stark.” Thor’s voice shatters Tony’s twisted revere.  
“Please, my friend, I know this is a heavy burden to bare—far too much for me to ask of you—but Loki seems to respond to your presence.”

Tony feels time stand still for a moment as he enters the threshold, and feels that once he steps through the door, once he closes it behind him for privacy, that there is no turning back. Ever. Tony hears the door click soft shut behind him, closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. For the third time in his life, Stark is speechless. This doesn’t last long, however, when his defense mechanism kicks into overdrive. “What, uh, what exactly is wrong with him? Is he cosplaying Avatar or something. I mean, the graphics were fantastic, but the script—”

The look in Thor’s eyes stops him dead. He nearly falls backwards onto the disheveled bed, holding onto the overturned nightstand for support. “He—” Thor pauses, voice catching, “this form is his natural state. He is what my people call a frost giant, from another realm quite unlike Asgard. I fear Loki knows not where he is. He is delirious.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “I guess you weren’t kidding about him being adopted.” He watches as Loki, arms wrapped around himself, having contorted his body and curled up as much as possible in the corner of the room, back to them, trembles, murmuring under his breath. “Have you tried, you know, shocking him back to realty, shaking him, talking to him—what?” It was odd how any grudges against the psycho god who had tried to take over the world had suddenly shrunk into the background. Not forgiveness, Tony reasons with himself, just a kind of pity.

In answer, Thor holds up his nearly blackened, frostbitten hands. “I would not have beckoned you here to this place had I not tried everything within my power first.” Thor’s expression darkens further, his head bowed, golden halo hair falling into his face. “I am afraid that he will never return to reality again.” His voice is so strained that Tony clears his throat, turning away awkwardly.

Without a word, Tony stands to his feet. “What’re you asking me to do?”

”You must try to reach him.” They both walk to the corner of the room, past the wrecked picture frame with its shards of glass, past splintered wood and plastic of the desk, the chair. It occurs to Tony that Loki has done all this—the wreckage around him—and it occurs to him that Loki might do the same thing to him. A warzone. He steels himself.

Standing back as Thor crouches down next to the trembling mass of lanky blue limbs, Tony takes a moment to really study Loki’s frost giant form. He is actually quite elegant--beautiful, in a terrifying and totally straight way. Markings, similar to scarification, cover his skin, a rich blue that practically glows. He realizes just how alien Thor and his entire realm truly is. Thor kneels down beside his brother, reaching out with a firm hand, but not touching him. “Loki, brother, you must--“

”Thor.” The word is croaked out, hoarse and raw and deep, like it had violently clawed its way out of his throat.

Thor starts, a relieved smile gracing his lips. “Brother, I am here. Do not fret—”

”Thor—Thor!” The name is being shouted this time, ripping through his throat with horror and pleading. “Do not let them—do not allow them to hurt me—”

It is shocking, really, to see the change in Loki’s behavior. Shocking, disturbing, haunting--A whole thesaurus full of words, Tony thinks, is needed. Loki grabs onto Thor’s arm, one hand twisting the front of his shirt. Tony steps forward, hesitant. Usually in situations like this—ha, that’s funny, there is no situation like this that Tony has encountered—but in situations like this, situations dealing with people, emotions, Tony actively tries to avoid. “Hey, Prancer—remember me? Yeah, you threw me out of my own window, and Hulk smashed you into my floor. You know, uncle Tony. Ring any bells?”

Thor nods encouragement. Loki’s head is pressed against Thor’s chest, hair slick and messy, stuck to his face in wild, ink-black strands. He looks up only slightly, breathing slowing, and hands that were tightly clutching Thor’s arm slowly releasing, slender claw—like fingers straightening. His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his lips. Tony slowly reaches for the satchel that rests on his shoulder, sets it on the ground, and—rather embarrassingly and reluctantly—takes out the stone. He shifts it over to Loki. Puzzled, Thor asks softly, “that is the artifact that Loki delivered to the tower?”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Yep. The very one.”

”Why have you brought this here with you?”

”Just a hunch.” Tony squats slightly, hands resting on his thighs. “Hey, Loki—mind telling me what mojo this stone has going for it? I mean, you musta had a reason for giving it to me—”

When Loki sees the stone, it seems to trigger something. Loki’s face upturns, jade eyes dull, yet filled with faint recognition. Starting where Thor’s hand is in contact with his skin, Loki’s blue coloring, his Jotun form, slowly fades back to the pale porcelain hue. His body tenses, limbs recoiling violently. “Get out.” His voice is a growl, deep, throaty. “Thor, leave me. Come not near me again.”

”Brother, please, you must—”

”I do not want your help, your pity. No, I do not want your disgusting, self-righteous shame disguised as sympathy, your vulgar sense of inherent goodness—”

”I care not about your true form—”

”You’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all—but why the change of heart? Please, do not try to lie to the god of lies. It will not end well for you, Thor—so very much like your title, Son of Odin. He ripped my sorcery from me—a parting gift—but left me with only enough to conceal my base Jotun form. Tell me, Odinson, was that merely an act of compassion, or a strategic move to save himself further embarrassment?”

”Brother—”

”Away from me.”

Tony gathers up the stone, packing it away as he and Thor slowly exit the room. The silence of the hotel hallway is stark and unnatural now, Loki’s shouts still ringing in Tony’s ears. “I think that went well,” Tony deadpans, crossing his arms across his chest.

”Something is desperately wrong with him. It cannot be the punishment alone, nor his fall from the bifrost that has warped his mind so. His mind has always been so sharp—so quick-witted and full of knowledge. That—whatever madness overtook him in the beginning—that was not my brother.”

They begin the long, silent walk out of the hotel and into the limo that waited outside to escort them back to the tower. Tony’s mind is buzzing, racing—his math and science-driven brain searching for an answer, a cure—but he knows, deep down, that there is no cure for this kind of otherworldly damage of the mind.

* * *

 

”I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here.” Tony spins around on his heel, facing the group of misfits with a smile. Hawkeye and Black Widow are sitting next to each other, expressions not of amusement, but curiosity, while Cap, Bruce, and Thor sit a few seats away from each other. Thor makes eye contact, nods, a signal for him to continue.

Tony claps his hands together. “I’ll just cut right to the chase,” He takes a deep breath, makes a face of excitement. “Mommy Thor and Daddy Tony have been talking, and we have something very important to tell you. How would you feel about getting a shiny new baby brother--I mean, addition to the team?” The office is silent, save for the occasional squeaking of the swivel chairs, and Bruce’s awkward coughing.

”I must be missing something here, Stark, some reference I don’t understand maybe. If you’re going to tell us something, just go right out and say it like a man,” The Captain, forever serious, as usual.

Natasha shoots Steve a look.

Tony snorts, waves a hand dismissively. “You know, I really hate this office. It’s so boring. I’ve been meaning to refurbish it, bulldoze it, Hulk smash it. I think it needs more light, maybe some modern art—”

Thor stands. “Please, my friend,” he raises a meaty paw to silence Tony, who gladly obliges, “it is I who should divulge the unwanted news to our team. It is my burden.” Bruce is nervously pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

”Can someone just break it to us already?” Hawkeye speaks, his tone evident that he is in no mood for jokes, “I’m sure we can handle it.”

Tony bites his curled index finger. “Actually, Katniss, it’s your reaction I’m worried about.”

”Loki is to be moved into the Tower of Stark. He is to be guarded by Stark and myself alone. I do not ask it of you to approve, or to withhold your judgment; I only ask that you keep this knowledge amongst yourselves and that you do not inform S.H.I.E.L.D., for I fear that he cannot handle being taken into custody.”

The room erupts into chaos—an instant chemical reaction. Tony looks for something to defend himself with. He holds up an empty chair, seeing as how his suit is not on. Everyone is yelling at once.

”Loki, as in the Loki who invaded my mind, forced me to kill?”

”He’s a murder—a cold-blooded killer.”

”I thought Loki was in Asgardian prison. You’re telling me he’s here on earth and you want him to live with us?”

”I told you I didn’t want to get involved, Tony. I don’t have an opinion on this—”

”My friends please listen to—”

”Wait—I thought Thor said he had everything under control. Why—”

Hawkeye is glaring at Cap and Bruce now. “You knew? Both of you? Oh, some team this is- that’s great, real nice—”

”Chicken butt.” Everyone turns to Tony, whose arms are spread wide. His smile fades, replaced with a serous frown. “Look—I know this is hard to hear, but trust me, we’re doing this for the good of the city, not for Loki’s sake.” At the team’s still confused expressions, Tony sighs, gestures to Thor. “Story time.”

”We can’t just leave him in the state he is. He’s in a hotel for God’s sake, near people. He’s unstable, and what better place to make sure he doesn’t wear someone’s skin as a dress than here?” Tony sits cross-legged on the desk, his discarded suit jacket on the floor, all eyes fixed on him. “He gets out of line, he turns on us, then we Hulk-smash him, or we call S.H.I.E.L.D. That’s our bargain.”

”My brother is not himself. He is barely coherent enough to bathe himself. I assure you, he will not harm any of you. I will not allow him to.”

”You’re insane, both of you.” Hawkeye stands to his feet.

”I don’t know, Clint, they have a valid point here. If Loki is locked up here, under Thor’s supervision and not out in the city, there is less of a chance that he’ll be able to form an attack.” Natasha folds her arms across her chest, shoulders tense, expression blank.

”Tasha, you’re not agreeing with them—”

”I’m neutral here, Clint. I respect they’re reasoning, and yours.”

Tony turns toward Steve, eyes questioning. “What about you, Captain, what do you say?”

Steve presses his fingers together, head lowered. “I don’t like to admit it, but I think Tony and Thor are right. We can watch him—make sure he doesn’t cause problem, at least until we figure out a permanent solution.”

Tony teasingly presses his hands to his arc reactor. “That just warms my heart, Steve. Our first time to agree on something.”

”Don’t get used to it, Stark.”

* * *

 

_”Sir, it appears that you have an uninvited guest in the tower who has managed to get past security. Shall I sound the alarm?”_

Tony shoots up into a sitting position on the couch, nearly spilling his glass of scotch down his front, and runs a hand over his face—as if trying to wipe away the sudden shock. He mumbles under his breath, rubs his eyes. “JARVIS, the time?”

_”3AM, sir.”_

”Oh, that’s great—that’s just great. No—wait, who is it? Nevermind.” Tony already knows who it is. Not waiting for an answer, he stands to his feet, cracks his back with a groan, and turns to face the tall, lean silhouette of the one, the only, Loki. “Ever heard of business hours? No, I didn’t think so. Why’re you here? Fancy throwing me out a window, killing me—what?—having a heart-to-heart about daddy issues?”

Loki is examining a glass vase that rests on the bar, shoulders taunt, movements fluid. He turns and smiles pleasantly. Although he appears to be calm, subdued, and even friendly, Tony feels his muscles tensing, his eyes flicking over to where his suit it kept. He feels Loki’s eyes on him, never leaving—a tiger hunting, stalking, prowling. Loki takes a few steps, slowly circling. He leans against the bar, elegant limbs crossed, and makes a small noise of amusement. “S.H.I.E.L.D has been monitoring the tower. They have reason to believe that you and Thor are up to something,” Loki winks at this, as if its their little secret. “I suspect that Fury and his merry band are after the gift I gave you. So typical of mortals, is it not? Longing for everything mysterious to be explained, confined, to turn something as ancient and power as the stone into a weapon, or lock it up in their museums, their stolen relics?”

Tony does not quite know what to say to Loki’s ramblings. “Yeah, I hate it when that happens.”

Loki’s lips tug at a smirk. He twirls around, now bored with the room. “Do not let them have it, Stark.” He backs into the shadows, slowly, deliberately. “You’ll tell no one of my visit, and any future visits. Breathe a word of this to Thor and I will slit your throat.”

”Got it.” Tony decides to beef up security. Tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony remembers the odd sensation, the strange plummeting feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach when he saw the dazed and bewildered blue creature stumble into oncoming traffic on live television—wild and aggressive, like a wounded animal. He remembers suiting up, calling the team into action, flying past police officers and S.H.I.E.L.D agents, pushing them out of the way. He remembers Thor’s rage, his protective stance in front of his brother. He remembers shouting at the agents to back down. He remembers it all as he fixed his eyes on Loki, who had, only a few days ago, been that blue creature in a hotel room.

“Aren’t you supposed to make a wish on shooting stars, or is that only on birthday candles and old pennies?” Tony folds his arms across his chest, still balancing a drink in one hand. The clear liquid sloshes in the glass, reflecting and refracting moonlight and the blue glow of the arc reactor that breathes through his shirt. It casts a strange light on his face, shadows distorting features and twisting them. He steps out further onto the jutting platform of the roof, bare feet padding softly against metal and glass. “Then again, I don’t know why anyone would wish on falling meteoroids that burn up in the earth’s atmosphere. Do you make wishes on stars in Asgard?”

Tony is not afraid of heights—he cannot afford to be, not with his suit—yet he is reluctant to ease himself forward, to take another step. This hesitancy probably has something to do with the mentally shattered God of Mischief, who is sprawled on his back on the roof. Tony had been watching Loki from the wall of windows in one of his workrooms, and had made his way out when Loki had been balancing himself on the edge of the roof, toes of boots hanging over. Tony had thought that he might have tried to jump, to throw himself off of the roof, so he had run out to—to what? Stop him?—but that was not the case. Now Loki is away from the ledge, slender limbs spread, one arm draped across his abdomen, fists tightly closed. It is a strange sight—this man who had once sauntered across this same roof with such kingly grace and pride, such arrogance and mania, now lie on his back, crumpled, defeated, completely succumbed to the madness that was evident in him those two years ago. Tony realizes that Loki is staring up at the stars—or at least trying to—squinting against the blinking city lights, manmade fireflies in the night. A sea of stars can still be seen.

Tony sighs. No, heights hold no fear for him, but honesty, human interactions—Tony uses the word human lightly in this situation—the unfixable mess that is Loki’s mind--that scares him. This is nothing that he can find a solution for, no mathematical equation, no new element to invent. Thor has been gone for two days on business in Asgard, right after Loki was moved into the tower, in a containment room that Bruce had insisted on; incase the ‘Other Guy’ should somehow appear in the tower one day. It was temporary. It was all so temporary—the room, Loki staying. Tony plans on building a room for him, a fitting room with an actual bed and windows. He, of course, keeps this idea between himself and JARVIS. He honestly believes, contrary to Thor, that Loki will never recover enough to leave, to be on his own. He cannot go back to Asgard any time soon—not according to Thor. And so, Loki’s fate is teetering on the edge of some figurative building, just as Loki had been doing a moment ago on the roof of Stark Tower—a falling star.

It was just Tony, Bruce, and Loki in the tower now. It would be that way for at least a few weeks, considering that Cap, Natasha, and Clint were off doing their own missions, their own super secret field work. It was quiet. Tony and Bruce met up in the lab every once in a while, ate lunch together, shared science jokes—but they generally kept to themselves over the past few days. Tony and Pepper had gone out to dinner, gone over business deals and paper work—it had been nice, but Tony couldn’t escape the feeling of dread—a kind of dullness in the back of his mind, about what solitary and screwed up creature waited in his cell at the Tower, and how they were all sort of dancing around it—a bomb waiting to explode.

Tony walks closer, crouches and sits down a few feet away with a grunt. He sets his drink down. “You recovered from your diva Broadway performance from the other day?” Tony smirks humorlessly to himself, recalling how, a few days ago before Loki had been moved into the tower, Loki had stumbled out of his hotel room and into the street. S.H.I.E.L.D had discovered him and sent the Avengers after him. Loki had, in his shock, totaled a few cars that had swerved around him in the middle of the road, leading to agents firing on him before Thor could pummel them into stopping. A few people had gotten hurt, Loki had made sure of that. It had been a mess, to put it lightly. Fury had wanted Loki in S.H.I.E.L.D custody—still does. They would be keeping an eye on him—and after his little temper tantrum in the street, one more step out of line would sent agents after Loki to lock him up for questioning. It was only a matter of time.

“Pray you, mark my words and leave me be, Stark. I do not desire your company, nor do I have any need of it.” Loki props himself up on his elbows, dark hair whipping around his face in the cool evening breeze.

“That’s an interesting way to say thank you.” Tony fingers the sweating glass of alcohol, puts it to his lips, takes a swig. He sucks in a breath. “I could have just given you over to S.H.I.E.L.D, let them make you their new weapons tech guinea pig—a specimen in a glass cage. I still might.”

Loki’s lips tugs at a sneer that shows all his shining teeth. “Yet, here I am.” His voice is monotone, empty.

“Here you are. If it wasn’t for Thor—”

Loki’s eyes narrow, “Perhaps it would have been wise of you to leave me in their hands. Thor has seldom been one for intelligent reasoning, but I thought better of your judgment. Perhaps Thor…” He trails off, jaw working furiously. But Tony could guess what he was going to say—that Thor should have left him in whatever hellhole he had been banished to by Odin and the Asgardian court—left him to suffer for lifetimes, for eternity.

This comment, for some reason, strikes a cord with Tony. He reaches over and takes hold of Loki’s shoulder, wrenching him to face his direction. Loki hisses in response, jade eyes blazing with fury and manic rage. “Unhand me, Stark, or—”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Tony growls under his breath, fingers still tight around Loki’s bony shoulder, into the supple fabric of Loki’s plain gray shirt. “Either you’re stupid- which we both know is not true—or you’re just too in love with your misery to realize that Thor- that ignorant and frustratingly naive giant of a man—actually gives enough of a damn about you to save you. My god—why do you think he brought you here—to look good—to fulfill some hero complex?”

“What if I never asked to be saved? What if I did not want to be saved? Do you think Thor ever gave a single thought as to what my wishes were?” Loki pries Tony’s hand from his shirt, backing away, standing to his feet.

“Uh, oh—sorry. Bad timing, I guess…” Bruce interrupts awkwardly, all shuffling feet, lowered head, and nervous pushing up of glasses. “I’ll just, uh, leave now.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his noes, jumps to his feet. He shakes his head. “It’s okay, Bruce. We were just discussing the weather. What’s up?” All he can think about is Loki’s words—how oddly familiar and cruel they sounded, an old friend—the same things he used to think, years ago, when he had first came back from imprisonment—wondering if he should have been left to die in that horrible cave, that prison—wondering if he should have just died from the shrapnel, why he had lived. He shakes these thoughts from his head now, surprised by how sharp they still are. Those days were behind him now—those thoughts.

Bruce folds his arms across his chest, eyes flicking from Loki to Tony. “Ah—” he smiles, shrugging, “I was just microwaving some of Pepper’s delicious chicken stir-fry from last night—I was wondering if you wanted any?”

“You go ahead, Bruce. Not hungry.”

Bruce nods, and then reluctantly looks to Loki—who merely eyes him up and down with an expression of curiosity and hatred. “Right.” Bruce runs a hand through his dark curls, turning to go back inside, “More for me, I guess.”

Tony strides to the edge of the roof, gazing at the city. “You never answered my question.” Knowing that he was not going to get a response, Tony continues. “Do Asgardians make wishes on shooting stars, or what? I mean, I’m curious…”

“We watch them fall from the Bifrost.”

* * *

 

Days pass before Tony sees Loki again.

Pepper leans against the granite counter top, pops a grape into her mouth, and eyes Tony with a small smile. “What’re these mysterious new blueprints you’re working so diligently on, Tony?” She places a stack of papers for Tony to sign on the desk.

Tony quickly glides his fingers through the air, hiding the digital structure from view. “Nothing. Just a new room. An add-on, for storage purposes.” He lets out a groan, now noticing the thick folder that is close to bursting with papers. “If I have to sign all these— I’m gonna get carpel tunnel. It won’t be good—I use that hand for many things.”

Pepper gives him a look. “We have to do more press, some appearances—we have to boost Stark Industries new, peaceful, clean energy image as much as possible.”

Tony flips open the folder, pen hovering over the papers that are still warm from being printed. “Oh, yeah, more benefits, more charities,” Tony mumbles, pen cap held between his teeth, “kinda like the one at the museum, because that certainly got people’s attention.”

Pepper lets out a cry of distress. “You promised me you’d never bring that up again, Tony. That was a disaster—”

“I thought it was funny—just a little funny.”

“Well, Mr. Stark, you didn’t have to deal with the press, the questions, the angry and disgruntled owners—I got two gray hairs from that night.”

“You look beautiful.” He stands on the tips of his toes, one hand absently scratching his arc reactor under his Metallica t-shirt, and studies her strawberry blonde hair as if checking for grays. “Yep, still beautiful. Gray hairs and all.” Pepper smacks his arm lightly.

“So, tell me about this new storage room.” pepper reaches up to the screen, dragging the image and expanding it, blue light reflected in her eyes.

“Uh, It’s boring—really boring—why don’t we just-“

“What don’t you want me to see, Tony? It’s not the spa I wanted, is it?”

“You want a spa? I’ll give you a spa—in fact, let’s go talk about that spa in private, preferably in the dark—”

Pepper squints at the design, before Tony can even try to hide it again, and frowns. “JARVIS, what is Project Reindeer Games?”

“I believe that it is the layout for the war criminal and S.H.I.E.L.D’s most wanted super villain, Loki Laufeyson’s room.”

Tony runs a hand over his face. “Nicely put, JARVIS. I swear, it’s like you have a glitch in your programing, or you actually hold a grudge against the guy—”

“He did throw you out of a window, sir.”

“A skylight?” Pepper raises an eyebrow. Tony can feel the disapproval radiating off of her. “He gets a skylight?”

Tony’s arms are lifted high, prepared to sway and move in wild gestures as he tires to explain himself, when he stops, seeing a figure out of the corner of his eye. It’s Loki, of course. Tony halts, stepping closer to Pepper out of reflex and instinct. Peppers eyes are wide, her expression startled. Tony clears his throat, watching as Loki saunters slowly into the room, dressed in plain clothes that are far too large for him and hang on his slender form, making him appear even more emaciated. His gaze rests on Pepper.

“Speak of the devil…” Tony mutters under his breath, before turning to Pepper again. “Uh, Pepper, this is Loki—Loki, Pepper—”

Pepper gazes back fearlessly. “Pleasure.”

Loki nods. “Stark speaks of you often.” Tony blinks—Loki seems much like his old self, coherent, self-aware, in a constant state of thinking an analyzing—not like the Loki who had turned blue or sobbed into Thor’s shirt. He seemed unstable, much more wounded and insane around Thor—now that Thor was gone, he seemed to have flickers of clarity. Tony has noticed this during the past few days. Part of him thinks—and doesn’t want to believe, that perhaps the god is screwing them over, playing them for protection. But can even the god of lies fake that kind of emotional and mental abuse?

She faces Tony. “I’ll let you get back to work, Tony. I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget to finish the papers—”

“Go get a spa treatment. What are these papers anyway—what did I just sign?”

“Like I have time.” Pepper stops mid-step, spins around, “I just remembered—I’ve hired a new assistant, and she wants to come by some time next week to take some shots of you for the new ad campaign. Her name’s Leena, I think. Leena Moran.”

“Right. Sure. I’m on it.”

Before Pepper walks out, she whispers softly, “Be careful, Tony. Please.”

Tony waves goodbye. “You know me, Pepper. I’m always careful.” He watches as her swinging ponytail disappears from view, before turning to the lurker in the corner. Loki is smirking now for some unknown reason. “You know, I’ve kinda had enough of your creeping around everywhere—it’s getting old, lacks the charm it used to have. Is it an alien thing, or do you just really like me?” Not waiting for a reply, Tony resumes his work. He expands the blueprints until they take up a quarter of the room, fingers moving rapidly, expertly. “Wanna see your new pad—nothing like MTV Cribs, but it’ll do.” Bluish light envelops the room, casting a faint glow around them. Loki steps closer with obvious interest in the technology.

Loki’s chin tilts upward, eyes narrowing slightly. Tony observes Loki’s expressions, as he takes in the high ceiling, the wide skylight, the odd angular walls—a small room, but a beautiful one—one almost fit for an almost king. Loki lets out a small breathy chuckle, but it lacks any amusement. “Thor intends for me to stay, I see. Pity I will never see the finished work.”

“You’d be surprised by how quickly me and my building team can fix a room—had to be quick after Hulk refurbished it with your body.” Tony rolls his eyes. Brooding Loki—always brooding. “Thor has nothing to do with this. This is all me—my design, my idea. Are you planning on running away or something—because you don’t have a lot of options at this point.”

Loki advances on Tony, shoulders taunt. “I am merely biding my time. As soon as your services are no longer required, and I find a way out of this cursed realm, I will be gone.”

“You’re not understanding the situation, Loki—that or you’re in denial. We don’t have any other options—you don’t have any other options- that’s why we moved you into my tower. Sure, you can leave any time you want, you’re not a prisoner, but this city can’t afford another incident like your stent in the street the other day. So if you’re planning on leaving, then leave—but unless you have a super secret baddie lair to stay in, you’re out of luck. Might as well make yourself at home.”

“It would be unwise of your to presume to know my options, my limitations. You are no different from Thor—you dare to treat me as if though I am a helpless child, indebted to you- as if I am below you. I may lack my full sorcery, but I am still a god, and you are still a mortal. I have a plan, Stark, do not doubt that.” Loki is towering over him, stretched to his full god-like height and posture, his shadow enveloping Tony. “My time in solitude has not taken my mind from me.”

Tony places a hand on Loki’s chest, pushing him back only slightly. “And it would be unwise of you to mistake my generosity for pity. Now, what do you think about green sheets—I know you like green, but I think it’s a little too much.”

Loki grudgingly glances at the blueprints once more. His expression remains blank. “What is this?” his index finger rests on a corner of the digital wall.

“Not sure. I was thinking it could be a bookshelf, or something.” Once again his thoughts stray to The Bet. Books—the man had ordered books of all kinds in his exile, to gain knowledge, to feel some sense of purpose.

Loki makes a noise of approval. He exhales softly through his noes, lacing long fingers together and resting his hip against the counter.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“The same goes for you, Stark.”

* * *

 

Thor returns the next day, and Loki does not come out of his temporary room. Tony happens to walk by Loki’s door one morning to see Thor pleading with him to come out, to speak with him. Tony decides that he needs a drink. He also decides to spend the rest of his morning scanning and researching the stone that Loki gave him—if Loki does indeed have a plan like he said, and if S.H.I.E.L.D is after it like Loki claimed, then Tony needs to figure out its significance before they do.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony had always thought that Rogers had the best ‘I’m a lost puppy’ face of the group, the slow, defeated walk, the pouty lips— but now he is reassessing this observation, because watching Thor— the actual God of Thunder, heir to the thrown of Asgard, and badass fighter— drag his feet around Stark Tower with that pitiful and horribly tragic expression on his face is downright sad. Tony feels like he should give the guy a drink, or a sucker or something— Thor would probably prefer pop tarts to candy— anything to make him stop.

Tony also resists the urge to scream at him to stop— just stop, it’s pathetic— yeah, Tony get’s that he’s worried and upset about his murderous and mentally fragile brother shunning him, but geeze— Tony cannot take it— he cannot deal with the family soap opera drama anymore. No more emotions— no more outbursts from the Odinsons when they come into contact with each other. Tony has fought and clawed and pushed— fought to get away— to avoid dealing with feelings, to avoid people with emotions who like to talk about them. Tony has gotten it down to a science. Science is something that he can wrap his head around, understand— a formula, a simple one. Sarcasm + clever quip = dancing around subject, or diverting unwanted attention, or shutting out, or getting out of business transaction. Easy.

If applied, this formula can get Tony out of anything— almost anything. There is the little problem of caring— because if Tony cares about something— really cares— he will die for it, sacrifice himself for it, to it. He will build a suit of iron for it, blow his way out of a cave— he will strive and give and bleed for it. He will guide a missile into an actual wormhole for it, for his city, his world. Pepper, Rhodey— those people he will do anything for.

Tony did not care about this situation— that reflection of green in a champagne glass— this otherworldly problem that should have been too far away, too out-there to even consider making him feel. Maybe that has changed— maybe he cares now because the problem is in his house, his home, part of him and right in front of him all of the time. Inescapable. He cannot waltz around the problem, around Loki, around Thor. Loki is certainly not on his list of people he cares for, would die for— not like Pepper and Rhodey— but he might care just enough. He might care enough to where it affects him on some hidden and well-buried level. He cares about Thor, about his team. But Loki— maybe he cares about him, too.

Tony mutters under his breath, tossing a rusted A/C compressor aside with a harsh clang of metal against concrete flooring. Black Sabbath blares from the speakers, filling the room with powerful guitar strums and lyrics at an ear-shattering level.

“Tony, what are you doing? That’s a five-hundred-thousand dollar car— “

Tony does not bother to look up from under the hood of his Saleen S7. “Gutting it. Putting it back together.”

“Why? You know what, never mind. Tony, I need you to clean up, remember we have Ms. Moran visiting for the ad campaign at 2:00—”

Tony wipes his hands on the back of his jeans, fingers drumming on the orange hood of the car. He can see Pepper’s hazy and distorted reflection in the shining paint and chrome. “I needed to build something— work on something, use my hands.” He kicks aside his toolbox and takes off his work gloves, turning to face Pepper. “Do you have time for a lunch date? I’m talking best restaurant in town, anything you want. “

Pepper sighs, a smile softening her features. “Unfortunately not, but I’ll hold you to that some other time.” She folds her arms across her chest, crossing the large and cluttered shop room, past pieces of car parts and furniture. “Is there something I should know, Tony?”

Tony pretends to think for a moment. “Nope. Why do you ask?”

Pepper’s face falls slightly. “No reason.” She turns to leave, and Tony half stands up from his seat on the folding metal chair to stop her, only to collapse again, not even sure what he was going to say to her. He runs a hand through his damp curls, over his face, as if trying to wipe the layer of grime and stress and problems away— he felt tired, and almost— dare he say it— old. He turns back to his car.

“Remember, Tony, Ms. Moran is coming over—”

“Got it. 3:00, Ms. Moron.” Tony bites his lip at his own immaturity, practically able to feel Pepper’s warning glare even though he is no longer facing her. “I’m sorry— that was terribly rude of me— very childish.”

“Very typical.” He can feel Pepper’s grudging smile, her biting back a laugh.

“It won’t happen again, Ma’am.”

“I doubt that.”

“But, in all seriousness—”

“Something that you are not capable of—”

“In all seriousness, don’t worry about it. 2:00. Got it.”

“Bye, Tony.”

Once again, Tony turns back to his car. He can feel the distance, the gap between himself and Pepper widening, slowly but surely, despite their sometimes-forced quips and playful banter. He does not know why— or when— or what caused it— he only knows that it is so painfully and sharply there. Things between them will get better, Tony reasons, once the chaotic waves of life, of the team, the burden dies down. He will not search himself for the answers, either for fear of what he might find, or what he will not find.

“ _Sir, I have discovered the supposed origins of the Snaptun Stone, as you have requested._ ”

Tony barely finches at JARVIS’ clean and crisp voice cutting through the silence of the room, snaps his fingers and tosses his oil-soaked rag aside. “Good, good. What, you want a drumroll or something?”

“ _It appears to be, according to ancient records, a rough depiction of the God of Mischief, carved into a hearth stone at around 1000 CE in Norway.”_

“It’s a carving of Loki? Wait— you’re telling me that bastard actually gave me an Asgardian equivalent of a bathroom cellphone Facebook picture?” Tony’s eyebrows shoot upward and he folds his arms across his chest. “That self-obsessed little diva. Some gift— a picture of himself.”

“ _May I remind you sir, of the time you similarly gifted a framed magazine with your photograph on the front.”_

Tony snorts indignantly. “Don’t get cute. Besides, that was a signed, limited edition— very valuable and tasteful.”

_“Agreed, Sir.”_

Tony stands to his feet, arches his back in a stretch and groans. “Any super-special properties I should know of? Magic, or whatever?” Tony still cringes at the word ‘magic’— magic, according to Thor and Loki— science, according to Tony. Magic is for children.

_“There are faint traces of some form of energy, sir.”_

Tony chuckles to himself. “Okay— if it’s a portrait, why the evil curly mustache? And what’s with the weird—” he pauses, motioning to his own face, fingers darting sharply across his lips, “X’s over the mouth?”

“Stitching, I’m afraid. Rather ghastly, is it not?”

Tony barely catches himself on the hood of his hotrod before toppling to the floor. He exhales hard through his noes, straightening himself enough to meet the gaze of the lanky god that is lounging against the wall opposite him. “I’ll be honest, it makes me a little uncomfortable that you get so much pleasure out of sneaking up on people— I mean, I know you like your leather and metal, so it’s obvious that you’re into some freaky stuff, but…” he trails off, clasping his hands together. He eyes Loki, a good hard look up and down, taking in his appearance. He does not look much better— still too pale, too thin— the same look in his eyes— the hunger, the insanity, the instability. A time bomb. Tick tock. “Stitching— what’s with the stitching— did you say stitching?”

Loki’s slender fingers clasp one of the carelessly thrown away car parts. He holds it up to his face, jade eyes narrowing slightly, and stares at the object with an expression of sheer boredom. He sneers, baring teeth. “Yes, it is a rather unpleasant depiction of a very—” he breathes in deeply, as if pondering his words, “shall we say, unfortunate deal gone rotten on my part. The mortals obviously thought that particular punishment an event worth illustrating. How fascinating.” Loki’s eyes sparkle and he laughs darkly, obviously amused. “You see, the house of Odin is generally painted in a heroic light, fighting the wicked Frost Giants. I suppose my accomplishments never merited a painting, only my failures.”

“Right. I guess that’s one of the downsides of fame. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve seen my face in the tabloids.” Tony sighs. “So, if the stone is a portrait carved by mere mortals,” he makes sure to mock Loki’s accent, the clear soft voice, the drawl, “then why did you give it to me? I mean, does it have properties, powers, a special energy?”

The corners of Loki’s lips tug at a smile. “Do not doubt its power, Stark, for the stone does possess sorcery. In time, it will reveal its magic to you.”

Cryptic— Loki is always so frustratingly cryptic. Tony nods as if he understands. “Sure. Now, unless you just came down here to give me mysteriously vague clues and then stalk off somewhere, what do you need?”

Loki grimaces. Tony watches in surreal shock as Loki actually looks away and nearly shuffles his feet awkwardly, his carefully constructed mask of cool indifference sliding from his face. “I— I merely require a temporary hiding place, solitude. You need not converse with me, I will be gone shortly.”

“Like I can work with you staring at me…” Tony grumbles under his breath. He laughs lightly, “So, who are you avoiding this time? Thor or Natasha? If it’s Tasha again, you should beg for mercy and hope she is in a forgiving mood— she’s still angry at you, by the way, for calling her a— what was it, mewling quim?” Tony chuckles to himself, shaking his head slowly. “You sure do know how to get on people’s good sides.”

With a hiss of irritation, Loki unfolds his long limbs and strides forward, eyes locked on Tony. “Thor is relentless, the oaf. He refuses to leave me be as I request, insisting that I am in need of his constant supervision. I can no longer endure his constant blundering presence, and so I found you.”

Tony shrugs, one eyebrow raised. “Big brothers, right? I mean, I was an only child, but I know how it works…” He crosses the floor, past Loki, and sidles up to the bar to pour himself a drink. He shivers slightly, feeling a burst of cold— an icy chill as he brushes past Loki. He remembers the hotel room, his Frost Giant form.

“I am no brother of Thor’s.”

It still amazes Tony how quickly Loki’s demeanor, his mood, his entire body can evolve from calm to menacing and manic in a flicker of a moment. He holds up his hands, as if surrendering, “He seems to think you are.” He thumbs his beard absently, quick to change the subject, “You don’t think I’m blundering, then? I mean, you do visit me more than anyone else in this tower— does that mean you like my company?”

Loki seems to consider this for a moment, running fingers along the countertop of the bar. Tony pours two drinks, though he is unsure if he’s willing to share. “Your company is tolerable.” In an odd, surreal moment, they share a smirk and a drink. After a few minutes pass in silence, Loki speaks up again, draining his glass and setting it on the granite. “There is another reason why I came to you. I do grow blasé while wondering about, and while I plan to leave your abode in time, I would like something to do to keep my mind sharp. Books, perhaps— but I doubt you own any scrolls or tomes of ancient magic.”

“Books, huh?” Tony muses, cringing slightly as he knocks back the last of his drink. “No magic, I’m afraid— unless you like Harry Potter— but I do have an impressive collection of science textbooks, even some philosophy.” He has not read a single one; honestly it was more of a collection for the sake of collecting than for his education, seeing as how he was a genius. There is another long pause, the silence closing in and nearly eating him alive. “Anything else you need?”

Loki’s features contorted for a brief flash, a second, a blink of an eye— Tony shouldn’t have seen the look, but he had. Confusion— anger— a deep, strange and unreadable sadness. “Why?” Loki’s voice is barely above a whisper, jade eyes clouded with questioning. “You owe me nothing. You have nothing to gain from helping me— no glory, no gratitude. I understand why you allow me to stay in your tower, to protect your precious city— but why not keep me in chains— why allow me comfort? Your team crumbles around you— I can see it in their eyes, they’re hatred, they’re fear— yet you do not cast me out?”

Tony turns to face him, meets his imploring gaze. “Look, Loki— it’s not like all is forgiven. I’m sure, given the chance and if you had your power, you’d probably screw us over for our trouble. But— and I don’t know the details— as far as I’m concerned, you’ve paid the price for your crimes in blood on Asgard. The fact is, we’ve all made mistakes— killed, wronged people. It’s not about you, it’s just the human thing to do.” Tony exhales loudly, clapping hands together. “Now that that’s out of the way…” He trails off, eyeing Loki expectantly. When Loki says nothing, Tony continues. “I’ve got a chick to meet about an ad campaign. Just ask Bruce where my books are, he’ll show you.” Tony swears that he almost hears a ‘thank you,’ but he cannot be sure. Loki exits the room quietly.

* * *

 

When Tony walks into the lounge, he finds a woman waiting for him, studying his glass case full of odds and ends, sculptures and vases and decorative gifts he has received over the years. “So, where do you want to start?”

Leena Moran is a tall, slim woman with curves in all the right places. Her long blonde hair is tied into a tight ponytail, the end swinging as she turns to face Tony Stark, who is not subtle in his lengthy appraisal of her. Tony smiles, extends his hand in a brief shake. “Ms. Moran, it’s a pleasure. Pepper tells me that you have quite the impressive portfolio of photographs— maybe you can even manage to make me look good?” He laughs. “What, uh— what magazine did you say you were with?”

Leena’s mouth tugs upward in a grin. “I’m with Green Technology— your company seems to think that employing me will help to boost Stark Industries new clean, sustainable energy image, and I agree.” She leans close, so close that Tony starts a bit, and taps the glowing arc reactor that breathes under his designer button-up shirt. She straightens his suit jacket, meeting his gaze. “Why don’t we start with a shot of you in front of your Stark logo, and then we’ll work from there?”

Tony blinks. “Yeah— yeah, sounds like a plan. Then, perhaps a drink?” He winces teasingly, as if expecting a rejection or lawsuit at the proposal.

Leena starts to prep her camera, taking it out of the bag around her shoulder, sorting through lenses and attachments. Tony can see the whites of her teeth reflected in the lens as she smiles. “We’ll see.” The next hour passes in a haze of bright camera flashes, rapid clicking, and pleasant conversation.

After Leena Moran leaves the tower, Tony reenters the tower from to roof to find Thor sitting on the leather couch in the main room, his expression troubled. Tony braces himself for what he is about to hear— probably about Loki— probably some request, to ask Loki to speak with him, for some insight. Tony feels weary already— tired, empty. He is tired for Thor, for his burdens. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Tony strides across the room, shrugging out of his constricting suit jacket and embracing the cool air that greets him from the stifling heat of the city air. “Did you and Jane have a nice vacation the other day?”

Thor glances up from his lap, offering a wan smile. “I thank you for the use of your jet. You are most generous, Stark. Jane and I very much enjoyed our outing to the beach.” There was a ‘but’ hidden in his words somewhere, something that Tony could not quite trace.

“How are things, between you and Jane? Ms. Foster seems like a smart woman, friendly, understanding.” Tony ventures, edging himself towards the topic, but not daring to ask directly what he fears he already knows.

Thor’s expression says it all before he can open his mouth. “I fear our relationship might be in danger. The— the recent events, the situation with my brother has put strain on both of us.” There it is. Tony drags his fingers across his face, trying to rub away the fatigue. Thor continues slowly, “I realized during our journey that I cannot— I am incapable of focusing my attention on Jane, not when my brother is in need of my care. I must put my family first— Loki is not himself. I am not myself.”

“You didn’t tell Jane that, did you?” Tony tenses for the answer.

Thor nods. “She believes it best for both of us that we take a break— that we reframe from seeing each other for a while, until things settle. I must focus on my brother— I thought him dead, and then unreachable in his comatose state— now that I have him back—” He trails off abruptly.

Tony takes the moment of silence to ease himself into the armchair across from the Thunder God, letting out a deep sigh. “I don’t really know much about family, or the bond you have with Loki— but I know that you have a tendency to sacrifice yourself, your needs and wants. Just— I’m not good at this, but— just don’t punish yourself by losing Jane.”

“Maybe I deserve this.”

The warning sirens are going off in Tony’s head, commanding him to run, to get out of there, to avoid the inevitable emotional talk, the heart-to-heart. He seems to be having a lot of those lately— talks— ever sense Loki decided to show up at a museum benefit and steal his drink. Tony doesn’t move, however. He waits— waits for Thor to speak, to continue.

“I am— I fear I am a horrible person.” Thor is not looking at Tony anymore, but the ground. Clear blue eyes focused, burning into the floor. “Is it so wrong of me to yearn, to miss the days in which Loki required my help, my assistance? Now he is coherent and well, on the mend— but he rejects my company, refuses to even look at me. I took care of him, I nursed him to health, I saved him and he cannot bare to look upon me.” Thor clasps his hands in his lap, features dark, golden hair shielding his face from view. “I do not wish suffering upon him— only to be needed. I am not a worthy brother.”

Tony lets the words sink in, only enough to understand their meaning. He lets out a growl of frustration, palm hitting his forehead with a dulled smack. “Thor— listen. You make the rest of us look like assholes— I mean, there has never been a worthier man, a worthier brother. Look, now you’ve made me give another pep talk— I can’t keep doing this— first Loki, now you— I’m losing my reckless, carefree image here—”

Thor eyes Tony curiously. “You have had words with my brother today?”

Tony groans. “Yeah— he was hiding from you, actually.” At Thor’s hurt expression, Tony holds up his hands in frantic waving motions. “Just give him some space. I’m sure he’ll let you in eventually— in his own time.”

Thor stands to his feet. “I thank you for your time, Stark. I— I was going to speak to Rogers, but you and Loki seem to have a connection…”

Tony wishes that he had confessed this to Steve instead. “No problem, big guy. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

“Who was that woman?”

Tony is taken aback by the quick subject change. He leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Uh, Moran— Leena Moran. She was with a green magazine that wanted to do an ad campaign. Why do you ask?”

Thor shakes his head, bulky shoulders shrugging gently. “She seemed quite interested in your decorations— particularly the ones in the glass case by the mantel.”

“You mean the stone Loki gave me?”

“Do you think she knows anything about it?”

“I doubt it— I mean, it’s an interesting piece.”

Thor nods again. He leaves the room, saying something about finding ‘sustenance,’ leaving Tony alone again, left to ponder the conversation that still hung thick in the air, suffocating.

“Do not be fooled by the disguise— that woman is no photographer. She goes by Amora the Enchantress on Asgard.” At this point, Tony no longer jumps when Loki speaks, having gotten used to the sneaking around and quiet entrances. “She is well-versed in the art of sorcery. I suspect she has come here for Thor.”

“Right. Why would she be here for Thor, exactly?”

Loki makes a sound of disgust. “To seduce him, I expect.”

Tony cranes his neck to stare at Loki, who is behind him, leaning against the back the couch. “Really? And Thor doesn’t recognize her?”

“She has cloaked her true appearance, and Thor has never been the brightest of stars.”

“Do you think she’s after the stone?”

“Oh, I do not doubt it. She wishes to harness its magic. Do not fret though, I have a plan.”

“If you hate Thor so much, why don’t you just let her? I mean, why tell me?”

“I have my reasons. let’s just say that I have my own plans for Thor, in time.” And just like that, Loki is gone again.

______________

When Tony wakes up with a jolt when the alarm sounds, his face pressed against the counter and a half-empty bottle of liquor at his side, he expects to be informed by JARVIS about a robbery or Amora breaking in. He sits up, dazed. “JARVIS, the lights. What’s going on?”

_“Loki has escaped the tower, sir. He is on a rampage in the streets.”_


	6. Chapter 6

_"Loki has escaped the tower, sir. He is on a rampage in the streets."_

Tony does not stop to think. He does not think at all- which is strange for him, in a way. Not to say that Tony has ever put much thought into his decisions, his actions, his self-destruction--but he has shut off that prominent and analytical drive, the scientific and logical part of his brain. Tony Stark does not suit-up. Tony Stark is dressed as Tony Stark--t-shirt, jeans, designer watch--as he rushes to the elevator, descends, fingers tapping, jaw working- no mask but the mask he wears everyday. No armor, no shield. Just Tony.

"JARVIS, give me an exact location." Tony paces as the elevator slides smoothly to the bottom floor of Stark Tower. He watches as the little numbers light up, blue and hazy- his reflection ghosty in the stainless steel, in the mirrors above his head. It is a slow plummet, matching the one in his stomach--thirty-five freaking floors. Now he thinks of the suit--his arc reactor glowing in the dim light. Thor and the others will definitely get there before him--he just hopes that he can get to Loki before S.H.I.E.L.D does.

_"Fifth Avenue, Sir."_

He grits his teeth, clenches his fists. Tony presses his forehead to the cool metal wall, swearing under his breath at his own idiocy. He should have thought--he should have gotten the suit, he should have flown--he does not know why, but he feels that he has to be there first--before Thor, before Cap and Clint. He shakes his head at himself, confusion and shock filling him as if he's still stuck in a dream-like state.

"Damnit--Tony, think." He closes his eyes, listens to the sound of the elevator dinging, counting down floors, 12, 11, 10. He snaps his fingers, looks up. Was this an escape-- this sudden flight into the night--another fit, another instance of Loki losing all sense, disoriented and delusional? Or was this somehow related to Amora? That had to be why. It made sense--Loki had told Tony that she had a game plan, and now he was attacking her, intercepting her plot. That made sense--no, it did not--not really. "He can't take her on alone, not how he is now."

He has to believe that Loki is either leaving on his own accord--in his right mind-- leaving as he said he would in time, or that this night outing had something to do with the Enchantress woman who had so cunningly wormed her away into Stark Tower. Loki has been improving too much to have it all crashing down on him now. He recalled the other day--a brief moment in which he caught Thor laughing at one of Loki's sly remarks, and Loki looking pleased with himself- a flicker of light in what has been a sea of darkness--something that would have meant little to anyone else--but it had been enough. Hope--that is what Tony had felt.

The elevator halts, the doors open, and Tony rushes out into the massive garage, through the glossy glass doors, shoes echoing oddly off of the pavement. He slides easily into the drivers' seat of his Telsa Roadster, leather crinkling softly.

"Stark--do you copy?"

Tony winces, presses two fingers to the earpiece he had forgotten he was wearing. He sucks in a breath, swallows, moistens lips. Steve's voice seems to awaken him enough to stop, to take a step back. "Captain," Tony speaks, his voice oddly subdued in the absence of his Iron Man suit, in the empty, hollow cavern of the garage. He peels out of the parking space and out onto the busy, controlled chaos of the New York streets. "Nice night for a stroll."

"We're headed to Loki's position. Where are you?"

"On my way, Cap."

There is a brief pause, a clearing of the throat. "I checked your room. You weren't there. I thought you might have been out of the tower." There was a subtle accusation in Steve's voice--something that Tony cannot quite place.

"I was in my workshop--look, it doesn't matter. Just don't let anyone attack yet--I think I can talk him down."

"Talk him down?" Another pause--silence that Tony can feel--a physical quiet that makes Tony's chest ache, like he was a child--like Howard was about to scold him. "So-" Rogers starts, "You weren't with Loki, then--before he escaped?"

The pieces are clicking together, a puzzle that--once assembled--makes Tony's knuckles blanch as he grips the steering wheel. "I see--you're suggesting that I had something to do with Loki escaping, Captain--I didn't help him sneak out, and why would I when he wasn't a prisoner in the first place?"

"Wasn't a prisoner? Stark--that was the whole purpose of keeping him in the tower, to make sure he didn't escape and cause trouble until we could arrange for him to be kept somewhere stable. He's dangerous-"

"Look, Steve, you can give me the lecture later--just don't do anything till I get there."

"You don't call the shots, Tony. I get that this is personal, but I'll do whatever I have to do to keep these people safe-"

"Personal?" Tony revs the engine, speeding past honking taxis, blinding headlights, pedestrians. "How is this personal? How the hell is this about me? If anything, it's about Thor-" Tony is nearly shouting at this point, incredulous. "You know what--just wait till I get there--attacking him will only make it worse." He clicks off the device, ripping it from his ear and tossing it into the passenger seat. If Steve thinks that Tony is acting on anything other than the protection of the city, then he is sorely mistaken. He shoves Steve's words out of his mind, pushing them to the back for a while--he just focuses on the road, on the rout to Loki's location.

Once he reaches Fifth Avenue, it is not difficult for Tony to locate the god. There is an overturned car; its wheels still spinning madly, and a thick stench of smoking rubber pervading the air. A mess of mangled metal, broken glass, broken technology, broken lives, broken family, ghosts in shattered reflections. Flashing blue and red lights, a helicopter circling overhead. Police--S.H.I.E.L.D agents--the works. Tony pulls over to the side, opens the car door and is instantly hit with waves of sounds, smells, and sights--overwhelming and all too sharp. He propels himself out of the vehicle, swallowed up instantly by the sounds of screaming people, shouting officers. The street is lined with cars, but Tony can see the blue figure rising to a standing position- one arm wrapped around his abdomen, as if he is injured. An odd, unfamiliar sensation wells up in Tony's stomach and he curses under his breath, recognizing it as something akin to concern--too close to caring. Get a grip, Tony.

"Loki, drop the weapon."

Weapon? Where did Loki get a weapon? Tony hears Steve's voice, calm and commanding. Tony rushes forward, pushing past officers, when a wave of ice and mist and stinging cold washes over him- engulfing, choking--he is nearly knocked off of his feet, a great force impacting with his chest, filling him with fear. A sheet of ice has covered the surface of the street, covered everything around them. Tony reels back when he sees several officers half-frozen and unconscious on the ground. Dazed, he reaches up to his chest where he felt the impact, hands searching, but finding only harmless little ice crystals that have formed on his shirt, on the little hairs on his arms and his beard.

"Loki-" Cap's voice again. Tony can see him now- unharmed, his shield having protected him from the ice storm--standing hunched over by a squad car. "Clint--you got him in sight?"

Thor, who is kneeling beside one of the officers and checking his pulse, looks up now. He locks eyes with Tony, glances back to his brother. "Brother, please--lay the Casket down and return to yourself. You must awaken from this trance--I cannot help you if you do not surrender--S.H.I.E.L.D will take you away from me." Loki pauses, as if considering--as if understanding. Loki is too tall, too alien in the environment--a foreign blue creature, stunning--deadly--too out of place in the street, next to parking meters and garbage bins. It is a strange sight--as strange as the silence that follows Thor's words.

"Drop your weapon, Asgardian. Put your hands behind your head and lie on your stomach." There is a voice, loud and robotic and demanding, coming from a megaphone from the helicopter above. "We will shoot."

Loki flinches violently as a spotlight serves wildly across the neighboring building and fixes on his wilting frame. He sinks slowly to his knees, face to the light, as if heaven's rays are shining down upon him.

Tony takes this opportunity to approach, pushing past the police, skidding past Thor and the icy bodies and all of the wreckage around him. "Loki..." His voice is steady, slow, as careful as his steps across the frosted ground.

"Tony--Tony get away from him-" Cap shouts. "Stand down." Tony does not look over at Steve, his eyes fixed on Loki, his mind fixed on the mission, on the puffs of mist that surround his lips as he breathes, on the sharp cold that stings through his thin clothing. "Oh, hell--he doesn't have his suit on. He's going to get himself killed."

"Hey, Loki-" Tony inches forward, crouching, knees bending. He holds out his hands to steady himself, to calm the Frost Giant before him, red eyes locking on his. "We were making so much progress, remember?" He searches for a quip, a sarcastic remark, an example of his trademark wit, but nothing comes to him--any joke he has conjured in his mind dies on his lips. His shoulders sag and he lowers himself further, lets out a sigh. "Loki--come on, you gotta snap out of it--put the weapon down. We can still fix this." Tony searches Loki's eyes for some sign of recognition. The blue light of the cube distorts their faces with shadows--twisting Loki's features further; two hollows were eyes should be.

Tony can hear the crackling of ice as Thor makes a move towards them. "Stark, be careful."

Loki's head snaps up, his lips pulling back in s snarl. The Casket is still clutched in his hands, fingers taunt and gripping to the point of pain. He points the box at Tony's chest, poised to strike, to unleash its power on him.

What are you doing, Tony? What are you thinking? Tony braces himself, steels himself-- mentally kicks himself--and, shaking his head, he reaches out and--like he had seen Thor do during their encounter in the hotel room--grasps Loki's bare wrists. The skin on his fingers and palms burned at the contact, warm meeting cold. He grits his teeth-- Loki pulls away, dropping the Casket. Loki's skin slowly begins to fade back to its original porcelain hue--whether or not it is from Tony's touch alone, or Loki's own willpower, Tony does not know. Loki's eyes, now jade, lock on Tony's--recognition, anger, and something resembling grief flicker past, a flash of light.

"Stark--what-"

Tony sees his own mutated shadow sprawled out before him on the ground, the spotlight shining down on the both of them. "Hey--good, just hang tight-- Fury won't take you into custody, not if Thor and I have anything to say about it-"

Something else flashes in Loki's eyes--moves to his lips--something like a smirk, a manic grin. This is the Loki Tony remembers from two years ago--calculating, so terribly aware and intelligent. The look is gone in an instant. And suddenly Loki is on his feet, Tony dragged with him, still holding onto Loki's wrists without even realizing it. Suddenly, Tony thinks. He thinks about what he is doing, what he has done, who he is dealing with--suddenly, the logical and analytical Tony--the one who had been left behind in the Tower--returns. He should have worn the suit. It happens so quickly--the impact, the being thrown across the street--the hand wrapping around his neck- the snapping sound.

Tony feels his body colliding with the pavement. He feels the ice beneath him, his body screaming in pain, and feels a wet warmth spreading. He is disoriented, vision swimming, fading to black. "Tony--Tony!" Steve's voice, loud in his ear. "Oh, God- someone get a medical team over here. Now. Tony, can you hear me?"

"Unfortunately." Tony hears himself speak, a hoarse sound, his lungs struggling to allow him a needed intake of breath. When he tries to sit up, the pain it so intense that he passes out. The last thing his mind registers is the clap of gunfire--sounding off in the night, echoing off the buildings, the ice, and Loki's strangled cry. Tony can lift his head enough to watch as Loki is pelted with bullets, and a single arrow whizzing past and lodging itself into his shoulder. Loki collapses hard to the ground, agents surrounding him.

* * *

 

"Is it, uh, serious?"

"Thankfully, no--it's just a fractured collarbone and a concussion. He'll live--at least, if I don't kill him myself."

Pepper. Bruce. It is an unusual sensation--hearing their voices, but not quite ready to open his eyes, to come back to the sharp reality and the pain that he knows awaits his return to the realm of the living. He holds onto the numb darkness for as long as possible before the claw-like fingers of consciousness drag him from it. He wonders absently--in this dream-like state--if gods can die from bullet wounds. No, he thinks, a dull blackness fading his thoughts, just from flying too high. An image of Icarus' wings of wax and feathers--constructed by his father--melting when the boy flies too close to the sun appears in his mind--the boy plummeting into the ocean. He muses that he could have built better wings--wings that wouldn't break. Loki plummeting. Loki's wings.

When Tony manages to open his eyelids, cringing away from the harsh florescent lighting and the ache in his skull, he finds himself so disoriented that it takes him a few seconds to realize that he is not in fact at Stark Tower, but in his Malibu home. He jolts fully awake, blinking wildly, glancing around in confusion. Pepper is at his side instantly.

"Oh, Tony--I was so worried-" Pepper's words are too loud, too sharp, making Tony's head spin. "You could have died--what were you even thinking?" Her brow is creased, tearing springing to her eyes.

Tony allows Pepper to help him into a sitting position, adjusting the medical bed so that he was propped up without aggravating his fracture. "I wasn't-"

"What?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"He could have killed you, Tony. He almost did."

"Pepper, if you could excuse me and Mr. Stark for just one moment. We need to debrief." Both Tony and Pepper are startled as Rogers' firm voice interrupts their talk, standing to his feet at the other side of the room, looking out of place in his old--fashioned clothes with the modern, crisp décor of the mansion. Pepper tenses slightly, as if taking a protective stance.

"Hey, Pepper, it's fine--you can lecture me about my self-destructive behavior later, okay?" Tony waves a hand to dismiss her, to tell her that he'll be fine. The tips of her fingers linger on his hand as she slowly backs away, giving Steve room to approach. Tony feels chills at her gossamer touch, and half reaches for her again, as if just realizing how much he needed her company, her touch. Guilt settled in the back of his throat, though he was not sure why--though he did not want to know why.

Tony turns his head, wincing, and rolls his eyes in preparation for the dreaded talk. He hears the scraping of a chair's wooden legs being dragged across the floor, Steve's awkward cough as he sits down. "Where is he?"

Rogers raises an eyebrow. "Who--Loki?" His tone borders on disgust and disbelief.

If Tony could move enough to whip his head around, he would have. "Yes, Loki. For God's sake, who else would I be talking about, Rogers? What--did they lock him us somewhere--teleport him to Asgard--what?"

"I don't believe this." Steve shakes his head slowly, runs a hand across his face.

"Don't believe what exactly, Captain?" Tony tries to keep his tone blank, calm. His hands clench the sheets beneath him.

"Why do you even care, Tony?" Steve's voice--there was something in it that Tony recognized, something that sent pangs of anger through him. Pity. "He set us up, Tony. He was pretending--catching us with our guard down--don't you see that?"

"Making more blind accusations, are we, Cap? Do you ever get tried of being wrong, of looking like an ass? First you suggest that I had something to do with Loki's stint the other night- now you're suggesting that Loki--who would have to be the best damn actor ever--actually faked his own post-traumatic-stress freak-outs?" Tony laughs, bitter, lacking any humor. "Why, exactly would he screw us over like that? Huh--what would that accomplish? What would he get out of that--our sympathy--a hug?"

"I know this is hard to hear, Stark--I know you like him-"

"Like him?" The words were steel in his mouth, cold, tasteless--they hang in the air, suspended, floating there. "No--no, this is not about me--I don't have to like him, or care, to give a damn about him. This is about our teammate. Thor came to me--he came to us for help- so of course I care. I care about what's best for our City."

Nodding his head slowly, Steve folds his hands in his lap. "Okay--okay, it's just that..." He exhales gently, pausing, "It just seemed to everyone on the team that you and Loki had a special bond. He seemed to be fond of you--of your company--and it seemed that you were, too." There is a long interlude in which Tony ponders the words, the accusations, over and over again in his heads. The words--they click in Tony's mind, but they do not make sense. He refuses to let the words to make sense.

"What makes you think he screwed us over?"

"It turns out, while we were distracted by Loki's rampage, Stark Tower was robbed."

Tony thumbs his beard, eyes flicking downward. "Anything important stolen?"

"A few weapons--some technology. Looks like someone ransacked the place, too."

Tony snaps his fingers, mind working- gears turning. "JARVIS, get me a list of everything that was taken. Oh, and upload the security footage from the other night--at the approximate time of Loki's departure from the tower."

"I will upload the files immediately, sir."

At Steve's raised eyebrow, Tony rolls his eyes, "I think I know who broke into the tower-- and what that person was after. Hint--it wasn't Loki."

"We still need to talk about you not following orders, and about you rushing out there without your suit on."

"Trust me, Cap, Pepper will take care of that for you." Tony glances up, watching as the digital screen comes to life in front of him, as JARVIS loads the footage. "You didn't answer my question, Rogers."

"Which one?"

"Where is Loki being kept?"

"He's in S.H.I.E.L.D custody."

"Right."

"I was given specific orders from Fury to make sure that you stay here where you can rest up and recover."

"Okay. Obvious subtext--meaning that Fury doesn't want any of us interfering with his plans for Loki. You know me, Cap--I've never been good at following orders."

"I won't stop you, Tony--but I just ask that you at least think about what I've said. I don't trust him, Tony. Some people never change--now, I'm not saying that Loki is irredeemable-"

"But that's precisely what you're saying."

"Look, Tony-"

"You are unharmed, my friend?" Tony and Steve freeze, ceasing their conversation as Thor enters the room. Tony thinks that it's a wonder that they did not notice him earlier--Thor being a great lumbering giant of a man--yet, his demeanor suggests otherwise as of late--he seems so terribly small, so hunched and weighed down by all of the responsibility, all of the pain that he bares.

Steve nods to Thor, and takes this as a cue for him to leave. Tony shifts, cringing slightly, and gives Thor a small, reassuring smile. He taps the rim of his arc reactor for emphasis. "I've had worse."

There is an unusual sort of understanding between Thor and Tony. Neither of them say anything for a while--they just sit there, Tony propped up on the medical table like a stiff Ken doll, Thor sitting in the laughably little chair. They wait for JARVIS to load the footage. After a while, Thor clears his throat, finally about to speak--about to address what they're both pondering. Tony tenses.

"I do not know what I am supposed to do." Thor's hair falls forward into his face as he bows his head. "I have failed my brother. Again."

Tony sucks in a breath through his teeth, licks his lips. "I'll figure something out- we'll get him out."

"How? We have no bargaining chip--nothing for which the S.H.I.E.L.D is in want of. They will keep him there, or they will send him home. Either way, I have lost him."

_"Download complete, Sir."_

"Go to exactly 8:00pm and play it back."

Tony bites back a remark. He feels that he should tell Thor about Amora--about how he thinks she is involved--how she stole the stone from the Tower. But--something stops him. He cannot place his finger on the sensation--but something tells him not to reveal anything yet because--Tony almost laughs at himself, scoffingly, mockingly--because- and Tony realizes how silly it sounds, how impossible--he knows that Loki does not want him to. "We'll get him out."


	7. Chapter 7

"Jackpot." Tony instantly regrets whipping around, sucking in a breath as his clavicle and shoulder blade burst into white-hot pain. He winces, bites down on his lip. Sane or not at the time of Loki's attack, Tony is now resolved to give Loki a good beat down in his Iron Man suit- after they rescue him from Fury first, of course. At Thor's confused expression, Tony rolls his eyes and gestures impatiently to the screen. "Look—this is exactly what I was hoping to find—see that figure in the corner there? Keep your eye on it." If Tony had guessed correctly—which he usually did—then Ms. Leena Moran would make her grand entrance on the camera any second. "JARVIS, play the tape."

_"As you wish, Sir. I have tracked all movement throughout the tower."_

Tony leans back in his chair, thumbs the stubble on his jaw. The blurry shadow of a figure comes slowly into focus in the darkness of Stark Tower. "Wait- no, no- what-" He makes wild gestures, wincing, and makes a mental note to stop talking with his hands so much. There was Loki- not Amora, not one of her henchmen that Loki had claimed she possessed.

Thor's expression tightens, blue eyes narrowing. "I do not understand your confusion. Was it not Loki's image that we were in search of?" He folds his massive arms across his chest.

Tony watches numbly as Loki's slender figure dart past the frame of the security camera. JARVIS switches to another view, this time at Loki's back. It is strange seeing the tower dark and empty, knowing that while the team was sleeping, oblivious to anything other than the sometimes blissfully empty- mostly stressful and horror filled—black veil of sleep. Tony suppresses a shiver. The pain medication is starting to kick in- make his vision, his thoughts, and his movements fuzzy, slow, disjointed. The silence is broken as the eerie quiet of the tape erupts into violent noise; a chaos of sounds, of breaking furniture, of broken glass as Loki unleashes his apparent rage on the pent house. Shattered glass, shattered hope.

"Stark?" Thor's voice breaks through. "My friend, why do you look as though you are shocked?"

"Nothing. Loki just owes me a new glass coffee table." He needs to think—needs to analyze and solve and formulate. "JARVIS, pause it, please." The video freezes on Loki's hunched over frame, his back to the camera, his agile limbs poised to throw a chair across the room. Tony allows himself a moment to close his eyes against the light that sends a wave of throbbing pain through his concussed head, behind his noes and looping around to the back of his neck. So this episode really didn't have anything to do with Amora- Loki truly was not on the verge of recovery like Tony had thought. Or maybe- Tony tries to put up a wall between himself and the thought, and Cap's words. Maybe Loki really was screwing them over. Tony reaches out with tentative fingers and pulls up the holographic screen of blue, hands dancing in air till they find the list of stolen supplies. Weapons. Technology. Blue prints. Designs. Taken. He does not want to believe it- he does not want to entertain that thought for a second- though he doesn't know why. It's not like Loki means anything to him, right? It's not like they had a bond, an odd kind of friendship, right?

Tony runs a hand over his face, grits his teeth. "Thor, tell me-" He pauses, exhales, "Is there even a remote possibility that Loki could be faking- that he could be playing us, tricking us into trusting him for protection, or to steal my tech?" He ponders the words that float around in his head, mulls them over carefully. "Could this all be an elaborate act?" Tricking me. Playing me. Using me. Lying to me.

Thor shakes his head slowly. "My brother is indeed a talented liar- always has been. But I do not think that even he, with his silver tongue, could play such a convincingly role. Loki- he has been changed by his price of blood on Asgard."

"But he's pulled the figurative wool over your eyes before."

"Yes, with clones and magic and wit beyond my understanding. But why would he fool us now? My brother has nothing to gain- he is without most of his sorcery, without a home, without allies." Allies. Amora allies with Loki. Tony's mind put on the breaks- halted- quit- refused to put those pieces of the puzzle together.

Thor's words on the first night of Loki's grand party crashing come back to him, clear, sharp. You must understand, punishments for crimes on Asgard are very different from those on Midgard… There are realms in which time moves at a pace most unnatural, a century there would be a year on your realm. He braces himself to ask the words that have been clinging to his lips since the museum incident- lingered in his throat- the answer to the question he never truly wanted to know the answer to. "What kind of psychological damage are we talking about here? What exactly happened to him?"

Tony watches, detached, as Thor's features twist into a mask of sorrow and then darken to a kind of anger that almost frightens him on some level. "Will knowing the answer aid you in brining him back?" Thor asks gruffly.

Tony cringes. "No—well, I'm not sure—maybe if I have all of the variables I can solve this thing—figure out what we should do." He laces his fingers together, resolved. "Lay it on me, big guy. Let's get this sob story over with." His words are forced.

* * *

 

The light burns his eyelids red. Severe—obtrusive—crude and ugly—the fluorescents shine down on him, a spotlight that serves to inform him that he does not belong. Loki feels a laugh bubble up in his throat, aching to claw its way out of his throat. He chokes on it, tasting something metallic on his tongue. He knows where he is, and that makes the corners of his lips tug upward.

"You're not someone I expected to see ever again. I guess you enjoyed your stay so much here the last time that you were just itching to visit us again. Don't expect the same hospitality."

Loki does laugh this time. He lifts his head, finding that he can-but the rest of him seems to be strapped down. He can see Fury in the reflection of the glass prison—the dark leather coat, warped by the curve of the cage, glossy. He can see his own reflection as well, suspended on some sort of cot- strapped down so that either he would not hurt himself further, or hurt anyone else. He cannot feel the tips of his fingers and he deduces that they—similar to the royal we—have pumped his veins full of something to numb whatever pain lingered from the bullet wounds. Ah—the bullets—he can sense that he has not healed yet. This is a problem. He calms his mind, breathes, teeth still bared in a grin.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be laughing. In fact, I'd probably be a little scared."

Loki finally graces the man with a reply, "What have I to be afraid of? If I recall correctly, director—based on our last encounter, it is not I who should be fearful."

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one." Fury strides across the room, boots steps echoing off of the walls.

Loki fights the urge to roll his eyes. "What tortures could you possibly threaten me with? What exactly am I supposed to be afraid of?" He grows blasé—longs to move, to be free of his bonds—he starts to feel a slight sensation of panic flutter gently in his chest at the restraints—he needs to destroy, wants to slam his fists against the glass. He must be patient.

"You know, I've learned some things since our last meeting." Fury laments, hands folded behind his back. "Like how to properly restrain an Asgardian. And how-" he pauses for effect, "When a big bad criminal like yourself escapes, a price is put on his head- a reward that all kinds of people are willing to face a little danger for."

Loki's eyebrows rise. "You mean to barter me like livestock- to hand me over to some otherworldly thugs? How amusing. That is a bit of a low, even for you, is it not?" Now it is Fury's turn to laugh- humorless. Loki's jade eyes narrow as he calculates- pondering, musing. "Ah- I see. You believe that in keeping me here, away from these interested parties, that you are in fact doing me a favor? Protecting me?" He takes a moment to relish in his triumph, savoring the words on his tongue that he is about to unleash. "I think you'll find that if anyone wanted to breech your defenses to get to me, director, they would have no trouble doing so."

"Listen good, Loki- because this is the last time I am civil with you. I want information in exchange for a little protection, and some comfort. You can start by telling me about the casket you used to turn my men into freeze-pops. Do we have a deal?"

Loki tests the restraints, pulling against the straps that bind his wrists to the upright stretcher. He wiggles around, flinching slightly as the leather rubs against the wounds on his chest- the arrow wound on his shattered shoulder. "I will tell you nothing. That is my deal." He hisses. There is warmth beneath his shoulder.

Fury makes his way towards the door, face blank and eye burning. "I'll leave you to think long and hard about my offer." And with that, Fury is gone and Loki is alone at last. He leans his head back against the device that holds him upright, closes his eyes against the lights, and commands his limbs to relax completely. He has time to kill until his plans unfurl and flow and engulf. He wonders absently if Thor will get here before his plans have enough time to grow- He wonders if Stark will be with him.

" _Where is it?"_

Loki lets out an exasperated sigh, not even bothering to begin to address the disembodied voice that rings in his ears, through his aching skull. "You need to be more specific, Skurge." Amora is a thorn in his side- one that rivals even Thor's. She is no doubt connecting her henchmen to Loki's mind with her sorcery. How irritating.

" _We have no more time for your games, little prince. Where is the stone you promised us? It was not in the Tower of Stark. You lied to us."_

"Is my name not Liesmith?" Loki's eyes snap open, a growl rising. He regains composure, slinking back down into a comfortable position. He smirks. "Oh, dear. It appears that Fury and his merry band snatched it away before you could get your oafish hands on it. Pity."

" _Your worthless distraction came too late. You received the Casket, now it is our turn. We were promised the stone, and you will keep up your end of the bargain, or suffer."_

Loki laughs lightly. "I am afraid I am a bit indisposed at the moment. Come hither and retrieve it yourself. Or- better yet, have your darling Amora fetch the stone herself, rather than sending her cuckold, mewling brute of a bodyguard to get it for her." A roar of rage echoes through his head and he winces. "I do not respond well to shouting, Skurge."

_"Know this, Loki Laufeyson- should we not find the stone where you claim it is hidden, I will tear you apart- I will-"_

"Yes, yes." Loki has heard this all before. "I do not doubt it."

"Doubt what?" Skurge's voice is gone, replaced with Fury's, who has now returned to the room. Loki grimaces. His body is weak- his mind is weak. He will not let on- he will not fade again into that dark place where he was only weeks ago. He laughs.

* * *

 

Tony has seen horrors in his life. Tony has experienced them first hand--the grotesque effects of war on innocents--monstrosities birthed from his mind, created and dropped into the wrong hands, plucked from his. He knows torture- the crippling fear--the ever--hovering question of survival, of why- of living through another day in captivity- imprisoned. He knows torture, which is why he cannot stand by--why he cannot stop his hands from shaking, from curling into fists. Loki has done horrible things--ruined lives, taken lives--but Tony would not wish a lifetime of torture on anyone. Loki may have deserved a lot of things after his attack on Earth--but this, not this. Never this.

Thor has gone silent by this point, something resembling guilt, shame, and a deep pain clouding his features. Tony shakes his head. Thor had painted an image in his mind- images that flash, sharp, too saturated and bright and red. A snake- venom flooding, dripping, pouring--bound flesh, naked flesh. Eyes burned by dripping venom—only to be made whole again, the process repeated. Burned flesh. Burned away. An eternity--a lifetime--time slowed. Two years makes two centuries. "You-" Tony clears his throat, "You did the right thing. Brining him here, I mean."

Thor glances up, gaze searching. "Sometimes I wonder. I wonder if I should not have gotten you involved."

"Forget what the rest of the team says--forget what I've said. I don't know hell about family- but I know you did the right thing." He sighs, runs a hand through his matted hair.

"I thank you, Stark."

"Yeah, no problem. Just don't tell anyone else I said that." When Thor gets to his feet and slowly trudges out of the room, Tony takes it upon himself to think. Think of a solution. Think of a way to get Loki out. "JARVIS, play the rest of the tape."

_"Right away, Sir."_

Tony needs to clear his head, needs to find some logic to cling to. He watches as Loki's pixelated figure stops the destruction of the lounge, straightens up, and turns. Tony's eyes widen, his fingers twitching as Loki swings around and stares directly into the lens of the camera. He winks- and suddenly Tony is reminded of the gala at the museum, the wink before the paintings melted in the exhibit- the wink that was a promise of entertaining destruction to come. Tony pauses the tape on the wink- and feels that there are figurative paintings about to be marred- chaos about to erupt. Then he sees it- what he was meant to see- for his eyes and his eyes only- Loki very slowly and very deliberately hiding the Snaptun Stone in the only place Tony would know to look. It is unclear whether or not Loki changes into frost giant form on purpose after this, or if it is a side effect of him using his magic, but he does, and then he walks off where the camera cannot find him. He knew- Loki knew that Tony would watch the tape.

Tony sits up so fast that his body tenses up and he yelps. "JARVIS, ready my private jet to S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, please. Actually- scratch that- I'm flying the suit part way."

" _In your condition, Sir, this is not an action I would recommend taking._ "

Tony gives the ceiling a look. "You're not going to pull a HAL1000 on me, are you JARVIS? You know- I used A Space Odyssey as a reference of how notto build artificial intelligence. If you prevent me from leaving, I'll have no choice but to pull a 'Dave' on you."

" _Very witty, Sir._ "

Tony flashes a wry grin. He carefully eases himself over to the edge of the medical table, letting out a groan of apprehension and the agony he knows awaits his next move. He slides one leg off of the bed, then the other. He is on his feet again--legs wobbly, half-asleep--but he is walking, one step at a time--his collarbone, his back, his shoulders on fire. Maybe he has underestimated the amount of damage Loki caused physically- maybe mentally.

"Hey, you shouldn't be up so soon, man--what, uh--what do you need?"

Tony halts. Bruce. "Actually," he mutters, fingers sliding under his neck brace and pulling, ripping the ridiculous thing off and tossing it aside carelessly, "I could use a little help getting back to New York as quickly as possible. I have to assess the damage of my building, account for stolen goods, that kind of thing. Also, some paperwork--"

Bruce shuffles his feet forward. He is wearing one of Tony's spare shirts--a gray silk one that is ill fitting, and brown slacks. His brown eyes flick to the floor and he rubs a hand across his face. And Tony understands. "Bruce, did you hulk-out or something?"

"Well, uh--Loki throwing you like a rag doll probably had something to do with it. I don't like it when people hurt my friends- it makes me angry. So yeah, I uh- hulked-out for a bit."

Tony sighs. "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

"I didn't say that. I just want to--I just want to understand, uh, why, exactly you care so much?"

"It's the right thing to do."

"A lot of people risk their lives doing the right thing--I get that--but not a lot of people would be willing to rescue an escaped criminal from a highly guarded agency like S.H.I.E.L.D just because it's the right thing to do. A lot of people wouldn't see it like you do--as the right thing--a lot of people would see it as something else entirely."

"Maybe it's more than that…"

"Maybe."

"Maybe it's because I can't just sit here when Fury is planning to--God knows what--to get information out of him--in the state he's in, after everything-- maybe I just don't like how Fury was waiting for him to mess up so he could swoop in and claim his prize."

"A lot of people--maybe people we're close to--would see it as selfish and stupid, what you're doing. Most people wouldn't be able to see past the fact that he's killed people--that he's dangerous." He pauses, then meet's Tony's imploring gaze. "But I'm not like most people, though. You see- I have a little problem thanks to gamma radiation--and sometimes I can't control myself, what I'm doing--sometimes people get hurt because of me, because of the thing inside me. Maybe I'm like you--maybe I understand. Maybe I pity him. But that doesn't completely explain why you'd be willing to save him."

"Okay. Alright--you know what--I'll give. I could possibly care about what happens to him--care about him."

"Right. well, I guess that's good enough for me. But I can't let you go just yet."

"Wait--why?" Bruce gestures nonchalantly to Tony's shirt, which has been cut away and mangled by surgical scissors and is stained with dried blood, the Led Zeppelin logo in tattered pieces. "Son of a--" Tony swears under his breath, "That was my favorite shirt, too." Bruce was right. He needs to clean himself up first--needs to look presentable and healthy--not like some injured madman who has let his own feelings cloud his normally logical and unsentimental mind.

Once he pushes past the pain, Tony strides determinedly into one of his bedrooms and picks out a classy gray silk suit, black shirt that covers his wounds--the bruises--and adds sunglasses to hide the dark circles that have formed under his eyes. He stops to wipe himself down with a damp towel first, to rid himself of dried blood, then grits his teeth and touches up his beard with an electric razor. He smiles sarcastically to himself in the mirror before carefully walking out the door, gathering his supplies, and making his way to the garage. He debates taking Thor with him- but if he's going to do what he thinks Loki wants him to do, then he cannot have anyone else with him, for fear of ruining the game plan. It was oh so elaborate, and oh so fragile--yet, Tony reasons, he has probably only seen the tip of the figurative iceberg of Loki's scheme.

* * *

 

Loki slips in and out of a kind of dream state--allowing his mind to rest, willing his body to heal. He needs to heal--especially if one uninvited guest shows up before the other. He wonders who will reach him first- which puppets will dance to his devil's tune. There is a crash--an alarm going off, a screeching banshee that makes him flinch, press his face into the stretcher that confines him. For a moment reality is lost to him--for a moment, he struggles too hard against his bonds- for a moment, he is in another realm entirely. This is not good--not according to plan. He should be long gone by the time Amora and Skurge pound their way into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters- he is not ready to put up a fight if the situation calls for such action.

"Stand down, agents." Fury's voice, "Damnit, Stark--I thought you were supposed to be in Malibu, recovering."

"Yeah, well, what can you do? I was just a hop, skip, and a jet ride away--so I thought, since I'm in the neighborhood, why don't I just stop by?" There is some sort of struggle, perhaps an agent trying to escort Stark out of the building. "Hey--hey--this is a very expensive suit. I only have one- well, three, actually. I'm not here to play games, Director. I've come to give you information in exchange for your prisoner--who, by the way--you agreed to let the Avengers look after."

"That was if he behaved. And considering the damage he caused a few days ago--"

"Look--just take me to him, we'll discuss over tea, bourbon, whatever--"

"You and your team are no longer in charge of the war criminal. He became S.H.I.E.L.D. property when you could no longer handle his destructive tendencies. We need him for information and we need him away from civilians."

"He won't talk--he won't, he's not in his right mind. I have the information you need. You will get nothing from Loki--you'll only make things worse if you try to torture it out of him."

There is a pause. Loki shuts his eyes, strains his ears to hear. Then there are footsteps, a dull beep of a security door opening, and then the harsh clang of heavy-duty locks clicking into place. Loki lifts his throbbing head up to look, eyes focused on Tony as he and Fury walk side by side into the room.

"You have five minutes to explain yourself, Stark." Fury warns. "And explain this." With a few flicks of his wrists, a few keyboard taps with his fingers, a video is pulled up. Loki hides a sneer as an image of the Snaptun Stone is pulled up onto the large screen of one of the computers. Suddenly, his voice--a static-laced, hollow mockery of it, comes from the speakers, filling the room. It is footage from Stark Tower.

 _"S.H.I.E.L.D has been monitoring the tower. They have reason to believe that you are Thor are up to something-"_ He and Tony both watch as their blurry figures move before the camera, as their private conversation is broadcasted. _"I suspect that Fury and his merry band are after the gift I gave you… So typical of mortals, is it not- longing for everything mysterious to be explained, confined, to turn something as ancient and power as the stone into a weapon, or lock it up in their museums, their stolen relics…"_

_"Yeah, I hate it when that happens."_

Loki's lips tug at a smirk. He twirls around. _"Do not let them have it, Stark."_ Fury pauses the tape.

"Care to explain this conversation, Stark?"

"Pretty sure you've violated some of my constitutional rights there, buddy."

"Should I play more? How about the one where you two have a little heart-to-heart? Or my personal favorite, the one where Loki hovers outside of your door when he thinks no one is watching? You two have a very interesting alliance going on--the question is, why are you plotting with him?"

"No, I think you've made your point--wait, what about that last one--you know what, never mind." Stark manages to keep on his poker face. In the brief moment that Fury's back is turned, his focus on the computer, Loki meets Stark's gaze and Loki knows that Tony knows exactly what he is supposed to do. Loki exhales in a smirk. "Look, Fury—I'll be honest with you here—Loki did give me the stone, and we were going to use it's power to build something—to power a new suit, but that doesn't matter anymore—" Loki is mildly impressed by Tony's ability to lie and make up nonsense, fantasy stories off the top of his head. This could not be going more smoothly.

Loki takes this as his cue to step in, to fuel the fire of Fury's curiosity and greed with a few more sparks of lies. "Stark—" Loki hisses, "You mustn't forfeit the stone to him—we had a deal."

Stark plays off of his acting expertly, beautifully. "I'm breaking our deal. It's too powerful—the stone could fall into the wrong hands, Loki. I have to do it."

"You base coward—you mean to trade the raw power of the stone for my freedom?"

Tony pretends to look deeply offended, but Loki can catch a glimpse of a lighthearted look in Stark's eyes—enjoyment, the thrill of trickery, of winning. Without another word, Tony shrugs off the strap of the satchel he had been wearing across his shoulder, nearly whimpering in pain as it tugs on his injury, and opens the flap of the bag. "The stone. It's all yours—in exchange for Loki. He will be guarded in the Avengers Tower, as originally planned. Here's the information you were after—it's yours—you have no reason to keep him here anymore."

The look on Fury's face is almost comical. He is confused—perhaps too wary of their forced banter—but he seems to buy it for now—now that the stone is in his grasp. "Fine. But if he steps out of line one more time, we will end his destruction permanently." He orders agents to proceed with caution when getting Loki down from his suspended prison. Loki feels all of the strength leave his body as four agents unbuckle the straps around him and lower him to his feet. When he collapses to his knees, the startled agents train their guns on him.

"Hey—hey, stop—Loki—" Tony is walking towards him, ready to help him up, ready to take him to the Tower. When the alarm sounds, everyone freezes. There is a security breech. Fury runs off—lights flash, people scurry—agents reach for their weapons. Tony halts midstride a few feet from where Loki kneels. "Were you expecting company or something?" He asks quizzically. Loki just lets out a humorless laugh, one that tears through his throat and makes his sides ache.

"Perhaps."


	8. Chapter 8

Tony is usually sharp of mind—quick—the first to get the joke—the first to understand, to solve the problem, the formula. This is not one of those times. Tony is not an easy person to fool, to take by surprise—not since Obadiah—not since he had to shield and protect and guard his heart— the literal and the figurative. It was that or dying. It was that or being crushed under the weight of everything. Trust was not something that Tony handed out like autographs and expensive fruit baskets after benefits. No—Tony makes it a priority to stay one step ahead. It usually works. Loki is apparently an exception to this rule, this way of conducting himself, because Tony has no idea what is happening. Tony has assumed—Tony has trusted. Now he's not so sure—not sure if he's done the right thing. No—no, he knows he's done the right thing—in trying to protect Loki in some strange way. The right thing in his mind. But maybe he should not have assumed that Loki was not coherent, or undamaged, or there enough to plot, to slip his icy fingers into everything and pull the puppets' strings. Questions. Burning, buzzing, constant questions race through his mind. But questions can wait. They have to wait.

"We need to leave." Loki struggles to his feet with a low groan, his movements hesitant, testing his strength.

Tony reaches one hand out to help, but stops himself, recoiling. "Not until I get some answers— not until you tell me exactly what you're planning."

Loki smirks. "I dare say we would be here all night. We haven't the time for that now."

We. Tony reels back mentally, thrown by the usage of the word. Since when did Loki say we? Wasn't it all about me, me, me with Loki? My throne, my plans, my damn superiority complex. Then again, Tony has never been one for we anyway— not a team player, at least not until a few years ago.

"Who did you bring here?" Tony turns gingerly, aware of the ache in his body, to see Natasha Romanoff standing a few feet away from them. It was a statement, not a question. She stares daggers at Loki, who remains somewhat hunched over. "Friends of yours?"

"Wait—okay, hold on a second—" Tony holds up his hands, presses fingers to temples. "I know I have a concussion and everything—but who is here, exactly?"

"I assure you, who ever is breaking their way into your fortress is no ally of mine."

There is another loud pounding sound— metal meeting metal. Loki takes a step backward, as if startled. From the other room, just outside of the doors, they can hear muffled voices.

"You will release my brother to my care at once— you have no right to—"

"Mr. uh, Thor— Stark and Director Fury made a deal already— Loki is back in Avengers' custody. There is no need to use that hammer on the door— just put it down—"

Loki's expression confuses Tony. There is shock written there— maybe even relief, mixed with a bubbling anger and loathing. But the relief is there too, and that stands out to Tony the most. False alarm. The uninvited guest is just Thor- not some attacker, and more importantly, not Enchantress.

Natasha rolls her eyes, lowers her gun. "Do Asgardians have something against calling in advance?"

Tony nods contemplatively, exchanging a glace with Black Widow. "So it would seem." He turns to Loki. "Looks like we got a ride home."

"Stark—" Loki's expression tells Tony everything he needs to know. Not yet— not ready to see Thor yet, to be faced with the questions, the pity, the suffocating, strangling, stifling presence— not yet, not after this ordeal, this particular incident.

Tony turns to his suitcase that holds his compact Mark V travel armor. He kicks open the metallic case, sticking his hands inside of the protruding gloves, and the mechanical wonder starts to mold and form around his body. "I have a plan." He doesn't know how confortable the suit will be with a fractured collarbone, but he can guess that it will not be a pleasant experience. He tenses, the helmet closing over his head, the computer coming to life as JARVIS states a greeting. Tony turns smug at Loki observing with a mildly interested look. "Sorry, Honey, I didn't bring the jet this time. You know I can never find a decent parking space here—"

Loki's look of understanding turning into horror and protest comes too late, because before he can react, Tony has his Iron Man helmet down over his face as has his metal arms around Loki's torso. "Hang on tight, spider monkey."

Tony doesn't know what exactly he had been expecting to happen. Some shoulder pain, no doubt, from carrying Loki's weight. He expected a clean getaway— a quick dash through the several doors, out of the building and into the air. It made perfect sense in his head— a nice, pleasant flight into the night sky. He did not expect, however, for Loki to struggle and rage like a cat held over a tub of water. It would have been hilarious— Loki scrabbling at his armor and clinging on and swearing to destroy him— that is, if they hadn't crashed to the ground the moment they were in the air.

Tony would have laughed, had he possessed enough breath to do so. They tumbled onto the pavement of the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, Tony's repulsors flaring and dying as Loki rolls across the asphalt to avoid Tony landing on him. It would have been funny— but Tony feared that Loki might actually kill him if he laughed at him. "What? You don't like flying?" Tony gets no response, merely a glare. He sighs. "Alright- yeah, okay- bad idea— let's hotwire one of these vehicles or something." Better yet- he could bribe/threaten Agent Hill into driving them to the city limits.

* * *

 

This should make the tabloids. Tony can see it now, the flashing bulbs and quick snaps of digital cameras— Tony Stark, seen exiting a limo with the wanted war criminal and destroyer of the City, Loki Laufeyson, arm around his shoulder, hobbling into Manhattan's finest and most luxurious hotel. He can see Pepper's face, too— the disappointment, disapproval— though Tony is not sure why. But this disastrous scenario is not the case. Luckily for Tony, the inconspicuous taxicab and pair of dark shades shields him enough for him not to be noticed by any Crouching Stalker, Hidden Paparazzi— though he feels it is some kind of miracle because Loki is so tall— so unusual in appearance. Any word of this- any rumor or sighting of Tony aiding and paling around with a criminal would ruin him- ruin his team, no doubt. But Tony does not think about that.

"The Presidential Suite—please and thank you. One night only." Tony has been here before— alone once, another time with a woman he'd met at a casino. A slide of a credit card and a nervous and judging look from the attendant later, and Tony and Loki are on their way up the glass and gold elevator to the top floor. Tony is not sure quite how to react— not sure what to say, what to do—it's all very strange and surreal. He doesn't say anything the entire assent, feeling that something—some kind a wall, even greater and stronger than the one previously there, separated Loki and himself from hearing, from voicing anything.

Tony is reminded of his encounter with Loki in the rundown motel a few weeks ago—what a contrast it was— both in the building and in Loki's demeanor, maybe his own demeanor. Loki was hardly the hunkered, whimpering blue creature he was then in that moment— and Tony was hardly the reluctant helper to Thor's situation. No—he had changed since then, too, in a miniscule, barely noticeable way. Because he was not here now out of some hesitant promise to a friend—he was here on his own, on his own terms— what that meant, he did not venture to find out.

They walk slowly down the hallway, footsteps dull thuds on the rich red carpeting and shining marble floors. There is something—some elephant in the room, some underlying sense of unease that follows them down, down, down, to their room. Tony snorts softly to himself— of course he's uneasy—who wouldn't be, after saving an unstable criminal and then treating him to a stay in a fancy hotel to clean up and regain his strength. The door closes behind them, startlingly loud in comparison to the earlier quiet.

Tony watches as Loki's eyes sweep across the room, narrowed slightly, taking in the high molded ceilings, the green velvet drapes, the wall of windows overlooking the city. "Um, awkward— anyway, what do you think—too gaudy? But then, you do have a flare for the dramatic." And suddenly, they are back to square one.

Loki says nothing. He makes his way to the sofa with long strides, examines the cream satin with knitted brows. He sits. "This—" He pauses, mind working, jaw working, "This will suffice, I should think."

Tony gently eases off his sports jacket, tossing it on the back of one of the blue chairs carelessly. He is tired. "I think you own me an explanation. About the stone— about everything. So talk— you know, spill your guts. I know you like to monologue."

Loki's lips tug at a smile, fingers tracing the swirling shapes of the upholstery. "I see. There is a catch, then, to your kindness."

Tony catches the hint of bitterness. There is always a hint of bitterness— bitterness and something else. "No. Nope, this—" he gestures to the grand room, "This is just a bonus. I did come to your rescue after all—that wasn't just so you'd owe me."

"Perhaps you should not have done so."

Tony blinks, reels back. "Wait— you're not putting this on me. You're not accusing me of coming up with this on my own— I mean, you're the one who left that footage for me to find. Now you're telling me that you didn't want me to get you out of Fury's clutches?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." Loki rubs his thumb across his chin, down to his lips, calculating. "Only I hadn't expected…"

"You didn't think I would come?"

"I had my doubts."

Tony smirks. "I have to admit— pulling one over on Fury like that was—" He knits his fingers together, leans back in his seat and smiles, "A little too much fun." His grin slowly fades into a contemplative frown. He leans towards Loki, trying to meet his gaze. "Why did you have me give up the stone? I though you said it was too powerful, that Amora was after it— that S.H.I.E.L.D couldn't get their grabby hands on it?"

Loki lets out a throaty chuckle. He rests his head against the wall, eyes closed, greasy, blood-caked hair falling in damp strands around his face. "All in good time, Stark." His hands wander to his chest, to the bullet holes in his decimated shirt.

Tony takes the hint, because he knows that even simple things like showers or cheeseburgers can help return some sense of normalcy, a crutch. "Right— shower's in there. And, here—" He reaches inside the duffle bag he brought with him that was now considerably lighter now that it did not hold the stone. He pulls out a pair of hastily folded clothes— a pair of black slacks and a plain burgundy button-up shirt. "Should fit you."

Loki takes the clothes from him, nodding a slight thank you— that is if Tony hadn't imagined it— and slinks off to the bathroom. There is a lingering question of why— why is Tony doing this— and Tony can't help but feel frustrated and angry because they've been over this. It's the human thing to do.

Tony can hear the shower running. He reaches into his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls through the contacts, thumbs darting across the clear screen, names blurring past him. He stops on Pepper. Hesitation. He puts the phone on the coffee table— picks it back up- sets it down again. When the phone actually rings, buzzing and vibrating across the smooth surface, Tony jumps.

"Stark—" It's Steve.

"Well, look who figured out how to use a cellphone. Good for you, Cap—"

"Where are you?"

Tony pauses. "Just chilling."

"With Loki?"

"Well, yeah, I guess— his run in with Fury kind of left him a little injured and in need of some basic comforts. I made a deal with Fury— looks like he won't be knocking on our door about Loki anytime soon, so Thor should be happy."

"At what time did you and Loki leave headquarters?"

Tony sits up, confused by the urgency in Steve's tone. "I don't know— about an hour ago. Why— what's with the interrogation?"

There is a deep breath on the other line. "S.H.I.E.L.D was attacked approximately 45 minutes ago. There was a woman who teleported into the building—" The icy hand of dread slides down Tony's neck, wrapping around his throat. "She and her accomplice took weapons tech from the vaults, including the casket that Loki had with him, and the stone he gave you."

Tony stares at the wall, phone pressed to his ear.

"Stark? You there?"

"Did anyone— were there any casualties?"

"Several were injured and are in critical condition. The woman was from another world— she used magic, like… well, like Loki."

"The Enchantress— that's what she's called— Loki told me—"

"Wait, Stark, you knew about this threat and didn't tell anyone?"

The pause is too long. Tony clenches his fist, slams it down on the coffee table. "Did S.H.I.E.L.D. take her into custody?"

"No. She got away." There is another long, deep silence, one that makes Tony's insides shake with anger. Steve doesn't even have to say it— Tony knows what he's thinking— the implications, the judgment. Either Loki was clueless in this, or Loki had manipulated it from the beginning. Either way, it is on Tony. It was on him alone— the weight, the blame, the burden. Once again, Tony has blood on his hands.

"Tony? I don't want you to—"

Tony presses the disconnect button, throws the phone onto the nearest chair. The shower is still running. He runs a hand over his face, tensing slightly. "Your delicate skin will get all pruney if you stay in there any longer, Snowflake." He calls out, not sure if Loki can even hear him— whether the spray of the water is too loud or if Loki is lost in his own mind. Tony waltzes over to the mini bar and forages for a forty-dollar bottle of liquor—skips the tiny crystal champagne glasses and grabs a mug instead, filling it the brim. He holds the mug to the air in a sarcastic toast, and drinks.

The sky has darkened considerably at this point— but Tony hasn't bothered to move to turn on any lights. He lifts his head from his sprawled position on the sofa as Loki skulks into view. Tony can only make out small, sharp details in the dark— faint light from the city streets bouncing off high cheekbones and slicked-back hair, wet and dripping from the shower. He stands there, a shadow.

"So—" Tony starts gruffly, "Which is it?"

Loki says nothing.

"Are you a lying bastard, or a crazy bastard?"

"You dare address me in such a way—"

"You didn't answer the question. Amora— Enchantress— whatever— she attacked S.H.I.E.L.D. She stole weapons—she hurt people— good people. The stone— she was after the stone. How did she know it was there?"

Loki strides forward deliberately, his shadow engulfing Tony. "Because I told her."

Tony rises. "Why?"

Loki veers in his steps, walking towards the large wall of windows, his back to Tony. His head turns, his gaze falling on one of the abstract pieces of modern art that hangs on the wall. Red paint is smeared across the canvas— illuminated in the yellow lights of the buildings outside— a bloody red, torture red, pain red. Loki looks away— Tony's stomach churns, and he knows that Loki's does too. "It does not matter now."

Tony moves to approach Loki, but falls back on the sofa, exhausted, head throbbing with alcohol and with everything that is going on. "No— you don't get that option anymore. You can't just leave me with some cryptic clue and expect me to salute you and go on as if nothing's happened. You don't get to do that— you lost me buying into that little trick when people got hurt today. I want answers."

He can hear Loki exhale a breath in a smile. Tony closes his eyes, shifts on the couch, the temporary brace and shot of pain medication wearing off to where he can feel the fracture. "Why would you help Amora— huh? To get petty revenge against Thor for saving your sorry ass from a fate worse than death? If that stone is as powerful as you say it is, then why give it to her?"

Loki laughs. He laughs— not one of humor, but not quite one of malice either. It is manic and it sends chills down Tony's spine. "Oh, dear— I should have known. If I could fool you, Tony Stark, then fooling Amora and Fury would be child's play." His words are not that of a sane man. Tony's mind reels— grasping, trying to make the words fit the actions.

"There's no way that was an act— the fits, the post-traumatic-stress—" Tony knows, he has seen it— seen it in himself, in Steve— in Rhodey. He has lived it and breathed it and drowned it— pushed it down, down, down— hidden it. He knows.

"You know nothing, Stark."

"Thor told me. He told me what happened— he told me what they did to you—" And then Loki is facing him and Tony knows that he's said the wrong thing— something that he tends to do often. For a moment, he feels that Loki will tear his throat out or snap his neck. He could— if he wanted to. And suddenly this is a very bad idea— every decision that Tony has made thus far that has lead him to this point. But Tony does not back down. "I didn't have to know."

"You are no different from Thor— you and your assumptions, you unwanted and self-righteous pity. I did not ask for salvation." More sinned against than sinning— a regular King Lear, hurling himself into the storm— not wanting to be saved. "You think me weak? My mind has not been altered or damaged by my trial—" Loki is addressing Tony with his eyes, with the direction of his body, but his tone is one of self-assessment, self-assurance. "You mortals may be affected by such tribulations, but not I."

Now Tony laughs. It is a laugh full of pity— of disbelief, and anger, and maybe hurt. "You're good at that— dancing around the question, the problem—I mean."

"I was fully myself when I threw you across the street like an insect. I am fully myself now as well…" The implication was there, that Loki could harm Tony now if he wanted to.

"Why?"

"Amora required a distraction whilst she and Skurge retrieved the stone."

"You hid it from her— you didn't want her to have the power— but why?"

"You sound an infant— you and your constant questioning cries." Loki turns on his heel, hands folded behind his back, frighteningly giddy with his words, with whatever it was that was swimming through his mind and lingering on his tongue. "The stone has no power. It is just that— a stone, crafted by mortal hands and out of morbid fixations. It is useless."

"Then why—"

"I was, how you mortals say it…" Loki pauses, savoring, "Killing two birds?"

There is an almost audible click in Tony's head as all of the pieces, like magnetized metal, slide into place. The stone was a red herring— a shiny distraction— a lie built upon suggestion. He feels sick at the metaphor. "People got hurt—"

"I had thought you superior to the others."

"Really now?"

"You are no different— just as susceptible to trifling, weakness— to useless sentiments and the crippling of the mind by the heart's bemoaning pleas."

"What changed your mind? What— the fact that I don't approve of your methods? What— that I care?

"You assumed. Wrongly assumed—"

"Assumed what?"

"That I am not who I am."

Tony pauses. It is dark in the room, the only source of light coming from the city lights outside, dulled and obstructed by the swaying curtains, and the inhaling-exhaling glow of the arc reactor. It outlines features— a harsh jaw line, pale skin, narrowed jade eyes across from him. He knits his fingers together. He remains silent.

"I never claimed to be changed— I never pretended to follow your precious moral code. I am what I am, Stark. You call it monster, I call it strategy."

Tony rolls his eyes half-heartedly. He ponders a thought, Loki's previous words spoken with too much harshness to be directed at Tony only. No— he knew that tone, that certain type of criticism. No one got that angry about something unless they saw part of whatever it was in themselves— a kind of self-loathing lecture that was more for oneself than the other. Tony knows it well. "I never said that…" Tony smiles a hollow smile. "I never called you that."

Loki does not reply.

"What was the purpose of tricking them— it had to be for more than just that— a trick?"

"Is that not what I do? Is that not my name, my nature—Liesmith? Come now, Stark— surely your teammates have warned you— surely Thor has hissed in your ear that I am not to be trusted." His smile fades, replaced in a flash with a snarling grimace. "In truth, Amora had been trailing Thor and myself for a month after—" He falters, "After that oaf brought me to Midgard against my will. I knew she had been searching for a source of power, something for which to unleash her wrath against Thor's mortal or some such nonsense."

"She was there— that night at the benefit. You saw the stone and thought you would make her want it."

Loki smiles, blank. "It appears that I cannot make a move without it having ulterior motives in the eyes of others— like giving you a useless item on a whim— so I used it to my advantage. I had not betted on Fury lusting after my gift to you as well— an added bonus."

The words like daggers sink into Tony's flesh, resting there, sharp and stinging. "She escaped. She got away with the stone—S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't capture her and her henchmen like you planned." He fiddles with a loose stand of thread on the upholstery. "She'll come after you— once she realizes what you've done."

"I do not fear her."

He thinks about Loki's reaction at S.H.I.E.L.D, when he obviously thought that Amora and Skurge had come— that was not a reaction of a calm, assured person. Tony's head spins— a numbness from the drink taking hold of him. There was one thing still unclear— why Loki had involved him of all people into his plot— why he hung around, sought out his company those many times. But Tony did not need to ask. Every lie had some element of truth. Loki may have lied to him— used him— but their bond, how ever fragile and little and built on deception it was— was still intact. Loki never needed to include Tony in his plan in any way— not in the brining of the stone to headquarters— because Amora would have believed him that Fury had taken it anyway, seeing as how he made to tower look as if it had been ransacked by the organization. But he did involve Tony— he visited Tony, talked to Tony— sulked outside of his workroom. "The motel."

Loki meets his gaze in the dark— his eyes hollows. The room is cold.

Tony shakes his head. "You may have been putting on a performance the other night— but not the motel— not the incident after that, either."

"You do not dare suggest—"

"I know because you looked me in the eyes the other night, right before you threw me— and I saw that you knew me— I saw the look of pleasure in your face. Not in the motel, not in the street after that." He reaches for his drink. "You may have fooled everyone else— but not me— because I know something that you didn't take into account—"

Loki reluctantly takes the bate, hands trembling, a bomb about to explode. "Do tell, if you're so clever."

"The other night— you didn't even look at Thor— you stayed the hell away from him, just focused on me. You shouldn't let your sentiment control you that much, Loki— your grudges. Because not even when you were trying to sell it to me— to Fury— could you look your brother in the eye. But in the motel— when you were lost in that other realm— you clung to him—"

"Thor is nothing-"

"You cried out for him. You would never do that in your so-called right mind— your pride wouldn't let you— not even if you were trying to strut across the stage in a performance, to convince Fury and everyone like you claim you were doing, for whatever reason. That's how I know you're bullshitting me when you try to cover up the truth with a pathetic pack of lies— because you think it makes you as worthless as that stone of yours." Tony makes a mental note not to drink so much before speaking with Loki— it makes him too reckless, too direct. Loki could snap at any moment— lose himself and toss Tony out of the window without a second thought. He ponders, silent for a few moments. "I'm still pretty fond of that stone— magic or no magic—" He mutters, "It looked good in Stark Tower— added a rustic look. I want it back."

"It has no power—nothing to offer you. It would only serve to remind you of your wrongly trusting my word."

"I never cared about that— if it was enchanted, or whatever. Maybe I'm just sentimental, and besides—" Tony's gaze rests on the ceiling, his tired eyes closing, "I think I could stand to be reminded of my supposed mistakes every now and then."

He watches as Loki returns to the balcony, his face a ghost in the reflection of the glass. Tony is starting to fade, his fatigue taking hold, and he rolls over onto his back with a wince on the sofa. He thinks of the different times he's been in this hotel— this very room— or hotels like it. He thinks of the women he's brought— blurred faces. But this is so very different— for obvious reasons like his intentions, and for not so obvious reasons. He may have been intimate with flings here— but never this level of intimacy. It was a different kind. There had been a wall, a kind of protection against becoming intimate in mind and feeling. Not now. This comparison makes Tony chuckle to himself with how absurd it is. "Go ahead and take the King-sized bed." He murmurs, lids closing.

Do gods need much sleep? Tony wonders vaguely. He recalls Thor groggily searching for sustenance in the mornings, disheveled and tired. But even if gods need sleep, in all the times Tony had awoken during the night, startled, in pain, he had only seen Loki sitting on the bed, perched, or standing by the window. Maybe Loki did not fear the Enchantress like he claimed— but he certainly feared whatever awaited him in his dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony bolts upright, startled awake, instantly biting down on his bottom lip to stifle a yelp as his injuries reject the movement. His head spins—the room swims. There are only foggy memories of waking up many times during the night, but no recognition of dreams—and for that he is grateful—but he can feel it—feel the dream, the affect it had—the cold linger of something—some unpleasant harbinger.

The weight of his decisions hit him, heavy on his shoulders, pressing down. But it is too late for that. He glances around, wondering what it was that had jolted him from sleep. "I expected you to be gone—to have magicked—Houdinied, or whatever— your way out of here." Tony confesses, easing himself into a sitting position.

"It wouldn't be the first time you've misjudged me." Loki is perched awkwardly on the chair across from Tony's makeshift bed on the sofa—long limbs folded, head tilted back to rest on the back of the chair. Dark circles cling under eyelids, and Tony wonders how long it has been since Loki has slept. Tony looks away, picks up his phone and tosses it from hand to hand.

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well—" He claps his hands together, "I guess I'm just used to one-night stands. You know, the whole leaving before they wake-up type of thing?" Tony sighs, corners of lips tugging upward, "Then again—I'm usually the one who does the sneaking out part." Realizing what he has implied, Tony holds up his hands, "Uh—then again, this wasn't exactly a one-night stand…" Tony is very grateful for once for the frustrating language barrier, because the comment seems to go over Loki's head completely—that, or he has chosen to ignore it. Some of his best quips have been lost on Thor—a real tragedy that Tony has to laugh at his own jokes most of the time. Tony makes a note to avoid innuendoes in the future.

Loki's gaze flicks to the floor.

"So, uh, back to the tower?" Tony groans, "Your bro— uh, Thor is going to be pissed that I didn't invite him to our little get-to-gather at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"It was for the best. I'm sure the blundering oaf would have found some way to ruin everything. He is so very good at that—destroying everything in sight."

"Well, maybe that would have worked out better for everyone involved if he had screwed up your plans." Tony cannot forget the risks taken—and he is someone who takes too many risks—the lives almost lost by Loki's complex and unnecessary methods of dealing with unwanted pests like Amora and Fury.

Loki pretends to be fascinated by the upholstery of armrest, fingers trailing lightly over the smooth blue velvet. "I do not require your approval."

"Let me know when that finally works out for you—the whole, convincingyourself-of-your-own-force-fed-lies, thing. Also, make sure you tell me the secret when you figure it out, because I've tried not to care—and it doesn't work." Before Loki can form a reply, Tony changes the subject.

"So," Tony reaches over and snatches up his sports jacket from the chair beside him. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Donuts?"

Loki's eyebrows rise.

* * *

 

Thor had been there—in the thick of the attack—in the line of fire when Enchantress and Skurge had teleported into the heavily-guarded S.H.I.E.L.D. branch. He had been searching for his brother, only to find that Stark had already negotiated and fought for Loki's freedom. Stark had completed a task that was not his own— a task that Thor alone should have taken on. His fists clench—jaw working. Guilt weighs heavy on him—a yoke he carries on his back—constant— the burden growing until he feels he will break.

"This is—this is extravagant." Jane's voice soothes and calms. Thor watches as she hesitantly peers around the expansive room near the highest floor of Stark Tower—taking in the modern decor with the stone fireplace, the bar, the large wall of windows. "I mean— this is really extravagant." She looks even smaller in stature against the high ceilings—but she was not out of place—not like Thor. She knows of Stark's technology, at least enough to know what everything was. Her boots thud softly against the stone floors as she walks.

Thor gives her a half-hearted smile. "I am sure Stark would be pleased to hear you like it." He runs a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the layer of worry and grief. "I would invite you to stay here, but—"

Jane meets his gaze, brown eyes softening. "I understand." Jane says, though Thor is not sure if she truly does understand. Surely she comprehends the situation—the fact that Enchantress had not only gone to S.H.I.E.L.D. in search of the stone, but also to destroy Jane, who had fortunately not been present that day due to an important astrological finding in New Mexico. By chance, by hap—she has been spared. The humans are so fragile—so breakable. Yet, they do not seem to realize this. Does she really understand? Does she know what he would do, how far and fast he would fall and shatter if harm came to her? Does she know that she cannot stay because Thor fears what Loki could do to her?

"Stark's flying machine will arrive soon to take you someplace safe." Thor states, golden hair falling forward, acting as a mask, a curtain. "I wish I could accompany you."

Jane crosses the divide between them, filling the gap. She reaches out and places her tiny hands on his chest, face upturned and searching his, trying to connect. Thor takes her hands in his. "You're needed here. Besides, I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D. will keep me busy with researching whatever it is they've found."

"Lately I feel that my presence is…not what my brother needs." The words tumble from his lips, having been lying in wait, hovering there. Guilt and shame cloud his face, filling his chest. Perhaps he is… jealous, in a way. Jealous of Stark—how Loki has taken to him after it was Thor who had saved him, had cared for him when he could not heal himself, could not function. Yet, this thought also troubles him—he feels himself vile and selfish for even considering it. Perhaps it is too much to bare—the thought that Loki might be better off without him. But Thor is not better off without Loki—and so Thor believes himself acting on his selfish need for his brother, rather than out of care for Loki. This, Thor thinks, makes him unworthy. "I fear that I have made things worse—" Jane's arms encircle him and he allows himself to exhale, inhale—taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up.

 _"Ms. Foster, your jet is ready for departure."_ JARVIS' clear voice rings through the room, ending the brief and intimate silence between them.

Jane bites down on her lip, shuffles her feet, and nods at the ceiling. "Thanks—thank you, JARVIS." She lets of a small chuckle. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

Thor strokes her jaw with his thumb. "That, Lady Jane, is something we have in common."

_"Welcome back, Sir."_

"Missed me, JARVIS?"

_"Of course, Sir."_

Muscles tensing, Thor turns to the elevator door that has now opened, revealing Tony Stark carrying a box of donuts, with Loki close behind, expression unreadable. Jane steps back from him, unsure. Thor tries to meet Tony's gaze.

At Thor's look, Tony holds up a hand in mock surrender, mouth tugging at a crooked grin. "Hey—you never said what time I should have him home by."

"Stark, if you could escort Jane to your jet, her journey must begin, and I must have words with my brother."

Loki slinks into the room, eyes flicking from Tony to Thor, fixing on Jane. He sneers. "I'd rather not."

Tony steps forward, cringing. "Look, Thor, I—"

"This does not concern you, Stark. This is a matter between Loki and myself."

There is a moment of silence, a pause, static in the air. "Right. Looks like the play-date is over." Looking not unlike a scolded child, he snorts and strides across the room to where Jane stands unmoving, a statue, her eyes locked on the floor and away from Loki. "Ms. Foster—this way to the chauffer…"

Thor waits until the mortals' steps are just a breath, an echo, before advancing on Loki. The God of Thunder has Loki by the front of his shirt in a second, yanking him forward and shoving him hard against the wall, a snarl forming. "Why have you done this?"

Loki lets out a choked laugh, his breath hitching as he pries at the hands that imprison him. His trembling fingers scrabble across Thor's hands, nails biting and digging into his flesh. "You should know by now that you need to be more specific." His expression twists—mask of amused indifference sliding, falling—turning into a look of pure hatred, jade eyes burning. "Let go of me—"

"Why have you led Enchantress to S.H.I.E.L.D? What has she promised you?"

Loki is suddenly blank, a frightening flash, unpredictable—his face, his tone, his eyes dull and devoid of any emotion or remorse. "To end you. To watch you suffer. To tear your precious mortal to shreds. To bring Ragnarök down upon us."

Thor slams Loki's back against the wall again, his anger taking over. "You have put many lives in danger with your schemes. I have had enough of your lies, brother."

"Lies?" Loki laughs again—short, panicked intakes of breath. "It is really that difficult to believe that this is what I desire?" He hisses, leaning in close, relishing the words, "Is it such a stretch, after everything that I have done—will do? After every curse and slander and abuse the All-father and his kingdom of fools has whispered in your ear—every obscenity shouted at me as I was paraded through the streets, a spoil of a victorious war?" He smiles. "Am I not what they say I am?"

"Enough of this madness, Loki. Surely you must know—" Thor's grasp lessens slightly on Loki's shirt, though he does not let go. "Whatever it is that Amora holds over you, brother, you must tell me—I can help—whatever she has promised is not worth the trouble that will come."

Loki's lids narrow, curious. For a flicker of a second, Loki looks as if he might speak, might answer the questions that linger in the heated air around them, hovering in the small space between their bodies. "You should not let your delusions—your pity—cloud your judgment, Thor. Weakness is not a trait encouraged in a king." He swallows the building saliva in his throat, inhaling sharply. "Look at you, searching for a motive, for a cause. And what if I had no other motive other than to cause chaos and pain—what then, Odinson? You would send me back? You would cast me out?"

"No, brother." Thor responds. A wolfish expression—more like a baring of teeth than a smile— takes over Loki face—but it is not a gesture of glee, manic or not—or smugness, for that matter. It is an expression of doubt—of a kind of sorrow that Thor does not understand. His hands flutter to Loki's shoulders, giving him a firm shake, desperate to reach him—to find some kind of hold, to pull him back from whatever brink he dangles from. "Never."

Loki searches Thor's eyes for a moment, desperate to find something there. His taut posture relaxes and his head falls back against the wall, lids closing briefly. The slender fingers that were trying to pry Thor's hands away now close over them, a light touch—but not quite affection. "Though I did choose to ally myself with Amora, I only did so in order to gain control over her, make her think I was on her side." Thor is not sure if he is telling the truth—but for now, he will just listen, and believe. "I know not the extent of her plans. I only know of her motives to enchant you and to slaughter your pet—though I sense that she is but a pawn in someone else's game."

"She is gathering power? That is why she coveted the stone?"

"The hearth stone is but a mere decoration—a tool. It is not like the Stones of Norn, for it possesses no sorcery."

Thor's expression softens. "Good, brother. I am… glad you have told me." He squeezes Loki's shoulder. At Loki's sudden flinch, Thor releases. "You are injured?"

Loki grimaces, hunching over slightly. "As observant as always. Truly your keen perception rivals even Heimdall's skill." Loki may have lost his mind—but not his dry wit.

Thor ignores the sarcastic remark, brow creasing. "Barton's arrow? The wound has not healed itself?"

"Unfortunately, not."

Thor sighs, recalling with a shudder the length of time—the months in which Loki's acid-worn skin and muscles had rebuilt, slowly, agonizingly. It is not something he cares to remember. "Will you give me an answer that is not masked in riddles?" Thor asks, growing impatient. "How long have Amora and Skurge been on Earth?"

"I do not know how long she has been on Midgard, but I am sure she has been trailing us since Stark's gala."

Thor frowns. "And you did not think it wise to inform me of this?"

"I planned on getting rid of her myself—after making some use of her."

"What would you use her for?"

"Information."

Thor decides not to question this statement for now, although it is obvious that Loki knows far more than he is telling. He takes a step back, allowing Loki space. Loki grunts, roughly pushing Thor further away, even though he has already moved.

"I am tired." Loki turns to walk away, leaving Thor in his shadow.

"Rest, brother." Thor watches as he leaves. "I broke into S.H.I.E.L.D. last night—to bargain for your release—to defend you." Thor says softly; as if this is a fact that Loki is not already aware of.

"You were too late, it would seem." Loki practically purrs. The words strike Thor—the final blow that breaks all of the steadily increasing accountability and strain—because Thor knows he is not only speaking of his imprisonment last night, or even of his punishment over the past year. No—Thor was too late—thousands of years too late for his brother, far before fall from the Bifrost. He listens as Loki's footsteps fade, and slumps against the wall.

* * *

 

Tony sucks chocolate icing from his thumb, box of donuts at his side on the worktable, and leans back in his chair. "You want one, Cap?" He asks, sliding the box across the surface of the counter. "C'mon, donuts are an American classic—I think."

Steve shakes his head slowly as he trudges into Tony's workroom, hands in his pockets. He looks considerably smaller—almost meek, in a way, without the suit on—but it is no less difficult to look him in the eyes. "We need to talk."

"If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that, I'd be a billionaire—oh, wait. Never mind." Tony crosses his arms across his chest. "Donut first. Then talk."

Steve sighs, takes a few hesitant steps, and reaches into the flimsy cardboard box. "Thanks."

"No problem. I see you picked the regular glazed—an old standby. Nice."

Steve rests his back against the counter. "They still taste the same as they did 70 years ago." He stares at the pastry, lost to Tony and the world for a moment. They sit in silence. Steve takes a bite, cupping his hand below his mouth as flakes of icing crumble onto his shirt.

Tony crumples up a soiled napkin and tosses it to a nearby trashcan. The paper bounces off the side and rolls away—a bot retrieving it. "Go ahead. Let's get this over with, Cap."

"Get what over with?"

"The lecture. The scolding— the talk where you accuse me of betraying the team for selfish reasons— the one where you call me reckless— the one where you say it's all my fault."

"I don't think I'm familiar with that one." Steve twists his neck to face Tony, blue eyes concerned. "What is it that you expect me to say?"

Tony's lips tug at a scowl. "Well—if you really wanted to lay of the guilt thick—if you really wanted to piss me off, you'd start by calling me Anthony. Then you'd compare me to you. You'd tell me how selfish I was last night—"

"I'd hardly call saving a man from captivity selfish."

"Yeah, well—I would." Because maybe Tony hadn't 'rescued' Loki selflessly—to free a broken man from what he had thought was unjust imprisonment. Maybe Tony had acted for himself—not only because he saw a bit of himself in Loki, but because he had thought that it was up to him alone to save him.

Steve says nothing for a moment. "I'm not asking for you to justify anything—I just want you to tell me everything you know about Loki's agenda."

Tony presses his palms to his face, pressing against a migraine that if forming behind his eyes. He lets out a breath, laughs humorlessly. "We're gonna need a hell of a lot more coffee to tackle that subject."

Steve's eyebrows push together. "Is it really that complicated?"

"I'm not even sure if he's telling me the truth—or if he's even—I don't know—sane enough to know what he's getting himself into." Tony twists his hands in his hair. "He convinced his little Asgardian buddies that the stone was something that they wanted, then he created a distraction so they could get their hands on it."

"The stint in the street the other night—when he nearly killed you—he was in his right mind?" Steve's appalled look makes Tony unconsciously rub his wound.

"Depends on your definition of right mind." Tony sighs. "After his little diva performance in the streets, me sent me a message—a bargaining chip to get him out of S.H.I.E.L.D.—but he couldn't count on me, or even Thor, to get him out."

"He was afraid that his allies would double-cross him—that's why he wanted you to get him out of there before they arrived?"

"He knew they would—once they found out that the stone was a fake."

"I—" Steve shakes his head, "Now I'm confused."

"Welcome to the club." Tony leans back in his chair, face to the ceiling. "What I can't figure out is why—why these Asgardian jerks want to team up with a broken god—and what Loki is getting out of the deal?"

Steve opens his mouth—closes it again. He hesitates, which makes Tony nervous. "What was Loki's explanation?"

"He said Enchantress was going after Thor—that she has the hots for him or something. But why involve Loki—I mean, she wanted the stone, but why go through a middleman?"

"Loki has wanted revenge on Thor in the past—maybe this is his chance."

Tony sits up. "Unless it's not about Thor—unless that's not really what Enchantress is after?" He frowns. "What if Loki isn't playing her—what if she's playing him? I mean, she follows him, convinces him to join her—it's a win-win situation for Loki, because he tricks her and she and Fury are eliminated for a while—and as a bonus Thor might get hurt in the process—"

"You're not suggesting—"

Tony nods with a wince, gingerly shifting his shoulders. "But it makes sense, doesn't it? With a hardcore 'justice' system like Asgard—you'd think maybe Father-of-The-Year would send hunters like Enchantress after an escaped prisoner?" He grips the arms of his chair, knuckles blanching. "God—I hope I'm wrong, for once."

Steve rests his chin on his folded hands, pondering. "I hate to say this, Tony, but if that's the case, maybe we shouldn't interfere—who are we to judge Asgard's methods—"

Tony gives him a scathing look, incredulous. "If that's the case, guilty or not, it's our job to protect him—for Thor's sake."

"Right, Tony…" Steve murmurs, jumping to his feet and making his way to the sliding metal door. "For Thor."

Tony swears under his breath, swiveling around in his desk chair. "What the hell are you doing, Tony?" He grumbles to himself, getting no reply. He turns to his computer, but the screens remain blank as he tries to think of some kind of solution—but his reflection is the only answer staring back at him, eyes hollows in the blackness of the monitor. He looks away, disgusted, and stands to his feet. He grabs the nearly empty donut box and exits the room.

Finding Loki has become somewhat of a game—a kind of 'Where's Waldo'—guessing in which of the four top floors of the building he'll be. Although the team has originally set up a temporary living space—a cage, more like—to keep Loki in, Tony had allowed him to use one of the smaller rooms on Thor's floor of the building. Loki was never there, in the temporary room—probably because it was too much like a prison, or that it was close to Thor's room. After finding the balcony and roof Loki-free, Tony decides to give in, his pride in his detecting abilities somewhat dampened. "JARVIS, locate the God of Mischief, pretty please." Apparently it was very easy to locate Loki with the computer because of his strange heat-signature.

 _"Very well, sir. Right away."_ There is a brief pause. _"It appears that he is in Thor Odinson's room."_

Tony recoils, taken aback. "Okay—that's a little strange." He murmurs to himself. He heads there, regardless of his surprise and reservations. Every passing moment seems to bring Tony the realization that he—and probably Thor and everyone else—knows Loki a lot less than they believe. On his way to the elevator, through the main room, he spots Thor. The God of Thunder is against the wall, his face in his hands. Tony moves to step back, but changes his mind and pushes forward. He passes Thor, who does not look up or even bother to acknowledge him. Thor is lost in his mind—in whatever emotion he is feeling. Tony considers speaking up, trying to engage him in conversation, but thinks better of it when he sees Thor's trembling, heaving shoulders.

Tony rides the elevator a few floors down. His footfalls echo oddly off of the metal walls—the sound hollow, eerie. The steps match the rhythm of his heart, the glowing breath of the arc reactor. When he reaches Thor's room, he does not bother knocking—the metal doors slide open, and his eyes are met with darkness—the silence thick and tangible, the only sound coming from the harsh, panicked breathing from deep within the room. Tony walks forward.

"Thor— Huginn and Muninn—"

"It's me."

Pause. "Get out."

"Can't do that." Tony's eyes adjust to the dark, the light of the arc reactor aiding somewhat in illuminating the room. Light bounces off of corners of furniture—glossy floors, the drawn curtains, the simple décor. Loki is on the floor—his back to the window, head tilted back to rest against the pane. "There's something we need to talk about, Frosty."

"Have you not questioned me enough? Shall I never be allowed peace?" His voice is low, threaded with a tremor.

"I just—want to make sure you're okay." Tony is not sure if now—or ever—is the time to address Amora's true intent, if that is really the case as he and Steve had deduced.

Loki responds with a laugh. "How touching." He shifts, tone changing abruptly from mocking to concern. "Stark, look out the window and tell me if you see them—"

Tony can feel chills rolling down his spine. Any prepared quips or segues into discussing Enchantress' motives die on his lips. "You know what, we'll talk later—I think you need some sleep—"

"Peer through the curtain. Tell me what you see. Please."

Tony strides forward. Light streams through the room in a blinding line, draping jaggedly across Loki's body, making Tony flinch away. Through slits of eyelids, Tony can see the cityscape, the roof. He says nothing—eyes searching for something that does not exist.

"Well?" Loki snaps, a growl rising. "Do you see them?"

"I'm not getting the joke here. See what? There's nothing there—"

"The ravens." Suddenly Loki is next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder so that Tony winces. He blinks, confused, maybe a little frightened—Loki's warm breath hitting his ear.

"How gothic. Please tell me they didn't say 'nevermore.'" Tony quips half-heartedly.

Loki continues as if he had not heard him. "They are the All-father's ravens—his thought, his mind. The beasts are his eyes—his sight. I caught a glimpse through the window—watching me—waiting to tell the All-father—" His grasp grows tighter on Tony, forgetting himself and his ego, desperate.

Tony swallows a growing lump in his throat. "It doesn't matter—nothing is getting to you here. You're safe." He can feel his body involuntarily go taunt at Loki's closeness, as if preparing for a strike—but he doesn't move, doesn't push him away—no matter how badly he wants to leave, to escape the terrifying vulnerability, the crumbling wall, the broken mind of this person who should be his enemy. He closes the curtain. Loki releases Tony, aware of himself. Tony can practically feel Loki's pride and superiority returning to him as he lets go, disgusted by his own weakness. "Get some rest, Cuckoo's Nest." He exits, leaving Loki in darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

There is a sharp whistling as an arrow is released from its taut string and sails through the air—a dull thud as it embeds itself into the faceless dummy's blue target-chest, right in the center. Loki smirks, running a thumb over his lips absently as he watches from his perch above the gym on the running track. He makes a noise of amusement, leaning slightly over the railing of metal and glass. "Practicing, I see." He is pleased by Clint's sudden jolt at his voice. "Good, good. Your aim needs improvement."

Clint's jaw clinches. His bare arms are slick and shining with sweat, and he wipes his face on the front of his shirt, exhaling harshly. "Nothing wrong with my aim." He jerks his chin up, gesturing to Loki. "How's your shoulder healing?"

"Fine." Loki laughs lightly, hands gripping the metal till his knuckles blanch. "Ah, but you merely wounded me, Agent Barton. I would have thought, given the acts I've seen you commit while serving me, that you would have gone for the kill."

Clint chuckles, drawing another arrow. His muscles tense with rage. "Well, I thought about it. I thought about letting loose an arrow in your throat—but then I decided against it. Part of me wanted to end you—to save your family the trouble-"

"For what? As an act of mercy?" Loki scoffs. "There is no such thing as mercy. Punish a man, and the other is victorious. Spare him, and the other is victorious still—because he has made him weak, lowering him into a position that requires base and unwanted grace. An insult—no, a grotesque mockery—disguised as virtue."

Now it is Clint's turn to laugh. "No. Mercy had nothing to do with it." He lets the arrow fly, landing it so close to the nestled arrow that it shears a layer of metal from it. "I wanted to kill you—to get revenge. But then I thought it'd be too merciful of me to put you out of your misery—that I wanted to watch you suffer a little longer."

There is a moment of silence. Loki sneers to himself. "You are different from your team members, Barton. An outcast. You do not follow the same moral code—you are not bound by it. That is why I chose you as the slave to my vision—for I knew, even as the tesseract whispered dark commands in your ear, that you would not be going against your nature to obey them." Yes—he was different from the others—but not in a pleasing way like Stark—but an entertaining, thrilling way.

Clint shakes his head. "You really are a sick, crazy bastard. Maybe I should have let my arrow find your heart—if you even have one."

"Yes—perhaps." Loki smirks. What fun. After Stark and Thor had been alerted by S.H.I.E.L.D of a possible threat somewhere in the City, Loki had decided to roam the tower for something to occupy his mind—some sort of entertainment—a distraction from the constant roaring in his head. The ravens have yet to return—at least not as far as he knows—for Stark had commanded his disembodied robotic voice to cover most of the windows with metallic blinds that activated at his command. And so Loki had slept—fitfully, until he had awoken and grown so restless, so tense, that he had to find something—anything. He had wandered around the floors of Stark Tower—pried in Tony's belongings, searched for something to amuse him, a book perhaps. And so he had found Hawkeye—a little mouse to toy with.

Loki releases his hold on the railing, hissing through clenched teeth. "But taking my life might have eased your mind."

Clint shrugs. "I guess." He grimaces, turning to look up at Loki. "I still have nightmares sometimes—about what you made me do. But I've moved past it. Way I see it, we're almost even now."

Loki's eyes narrow. "What ever do you mean?" His tone is dry.

"You got what you deserved—maybe more. You did your time—you got what you asked for."

Loki's fingernails dig into his palms as his fists clench, his heart throbbing in his temples, his vision darkening at the edges. Thor—a traitor, a liar, a pitying fool. Loki bites his tongue until he tastes blood.

Clint examines the tail of an arrow absently, a smile tugging a corner of his mouth upward. "Thor didn't tell me anything—neither did Stark—" he says, as if reading Loki's thoughts, and twirls the arrow between his fingers. "Didn't have to. I've worked at S.H.I.E.L.D long enough to know a tortured, shattered head-case when I see one." He smirks. "Like I said—look's like we're even. Or at least we will be—once your frienemies get ahold of you."

Loki keeps his features blank, his pale eyes locked on Clint's. "To which enemies are you referring?" He quips with a dismissive flourish. Loki has grown tired of playing with Barton—bored, uninterested. He turns to leave—thinks of going to find Stark's bookshelf and reading one of his science manuals.

"The list just keeps growing, doesn't it?" Clint reaches for his water bottle and drains it in one breath. He swallows, still breathing hard from his training session. "What's your plan?"

Loki halts mid-stride. He exhales. "Why does everyone always assume I'm plotting something?"

"I mean to get rid of Enchantress. Or are you just going to let her take you back to your cell on Asgard—Drag Me to Hell style?"

Loki freezes—eyes going wide—a flicker, mask falling. And suddenly he is not in a gym in Stark Tower anymore—suddenly he is somewhere else, somewhere dark and damp and reeking. It is a brief moment—a silvery flash. "Oh—I see. You're trying to manipulate me—to frighten me?" His snicker is forced—one that makes his chest ache—that builds into near hysteria.

Clint smiles, but it lacks humor. "Looks like the God of Lies has been lied to for a change. Stark hasn't been honest with you. How does that feel—getting a taste of your own medicine?"

"You think I know nothing of lies, Barton? You think I have never been lied to?" Loki's voice echoes wildly through the large room—practically screaming the words, raw. "You know nothing."

Suddenly Clint is backing away, nearly falling over the weapons rack as Loki is in his face, advancing on him, towering—all bared teeth and malice. Loki watches from his perch as his hastily conjured clone invades Barton's space—clasping his arms, a breath away, so horrifyingly intimate—before vanishing. Loki grits his teeth as his usage of the little magic he possessed starts to turn his skin blue—an added kind of punishment from Odin, that he only had enough sorcery left to keep his dignity—his Asgardian appearance. But the trick was worth it. Loki darts into the shadows of the room, edging his way to the exit. "Who is frightened now, Agent Barton?"

Loki can no longer see Barton from his hiding place, but he expects the mortal to be greatly shaken. "Just tell me one thing—" Clint calls, his tone firm, "Do you regret any of it? Would you take it back if you could—the horrors you've committed? Or do you just regret getting caught and punished? Just so I know—just so I can make the right call, given the chance."

Loki presses his back against the doorframe, fingers splayed. He frowns, eyebrows pulling together. What a ridiculous question—surely Barton merely speaks in jest. Loki no longer feels regret—not truly. Perhaps he regrets joining alliance with those horrible, useless, monstrous creatures from that cursed realm. He flinches—sharp flashes of that place—of the Other—of the fall—of the horrors of that realm and the beings in it. He despises them. Maybe—maybe he regrets it—not the ruling of the mortals—but perhaps making a deal with the Chitauri's leader—one that he has failed to complete. Maybe he regrets tricking Thor and venturing into Jotunheim that day. _No_ , Loki hisses to himself. _No—you lived a lie. You exposed the truth—Odin's lies—Thor's lies—the truth that you always felt, but never knew._ But maybe he would have been content with the illusion still intact? The illusion of home—of his brother? _No._ The voice—the answer is not as sure as it should be. He is exhausted by the question—the pondering of it. Maybe he regrets more than he realizes.

His fists clench. "No. I regret nothing."

"You would do it all again? The attacks? Even if it meant facing the same punishment?"

He twists his fingers into his hair, closes his eyes. "I don't—" He pauses, moistens lips. He shakes his head. "No—no, I regret nothing."

"That's all I needed to hear."

Without another word, Loki leaves through the sliding metal door, the sound of Clint's arrows striking the dummy ringing in his ears. He curls his fingers against his palms, letting out a choked giggle at his trembling hands. His heart races—breathing labored—and wades through the symptoms of anxiety—some bothersome and annoying bout of illness that Stark had called a 'panic attack'— something that Stark apparently has much knowledge about, and experience with.

He smiles cruelly at his body's betrayal—this display of weakness, and hisses curses and insults under his breath. "You are not so pathetic and base as all that, are you?" He asks himself with harshly imitated tenderness, as he walks along Stark's empty halls, past garish modern art and furniture—his gaudy palace. "Will you let them win so easily? Will you let Thor see you in such a feeble state?" Oh, how they would crow and howl and gawk at him—the fallen star—Asgard's sore, made into the weakling they always treated him as. No—he would not give them the satisfaction.

He flexes, watching as the blue fades from his skin—taking the pleasant chill that cools his burning forehead with it. Loki hasn't realized how much he has wandered around—looking up from the floor to find himself at Thor's door. Strange, that he should find himself there, not even thinking about where he was going. With a roll of his eyes, Loki grudgingly addresses the ceiling. "Open the door." He commands the robotic voice that Stark is so very fond of.

_"Mr. Stark requires me to inform you that you must say 'the magic word,' in order for me to take orders from you, Sir."_

Loki swears that he can hear smugness in the mechanical voice. "Please." The door slides open with a satisfying click. He makes a mental note to think of some way to make Stark regret playing with him in such a way—having to lower himself to a machine. But at the thought of Stark, darkness seeps in. If Barton was not merely lying—then Stark is not to be trusted. Loki does not ask JARVIS to turn on the lights, but walks into the dim room, the windows still blocked by the metal covering, allowing no light to enter. The door slides shut behind him, and he hesitates—listening, sight strained. Making his way to the center of the diminutive room, Loki eases himself into a sitting position on the floor, gritting teeth.

"Enchantress," He beckons her with his mind, hoping that she would enter and communicate like she had Skurge do at S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing. "Dearest Amora, tell me—do you intend to drag me to Asgard, trusted up—stolen goods returned? Do you honestly believe that the All-father will reward you?" He waits. After a minute or two of sitting and focusing, anger fills him. "I have information that you crave—I can tell you the location of Thor's darling mortal—where Fury's agents have hidden her away. I know you want her slaughtered—I can assist you in this quest. I merely want to be left alone—to escape, to leave this place and venture to another realm." He doesn't realize that he has started to shout. "Surely the All-father would accept that I slipped your grasp—that I vanished, untraceable? Why do you ignore me when I could give you what you desire—revenge—Thor, broken and ripe for the taking? Is that not what we both want?"

Loki is on his feet, and in the darkness he finds something heavy to throw against the wall. The dull thud does little to sooth him. When he hears himself shudder back a small sob, he laughs at himself—reminded of the poor, deluded Asgardian Prince who had once been affected by such emotion. That boy was long-gone, buried—snuffed out. If there was anything he learned during exile—during punishment—it was that pleading and begging and crying was useless—pointless. No matter how loudly he screamed, no one ever came. Not until Thor. Thor. "Fine." He growls. "Do what you will, but I swear to you that you will suffer for this betrayal."

* * *

 

Tony is in a good mood—great, actually. The alert that had sent the Avengers out of the tower had just been a basic robbery attempt at a weapons tech facility about an hour away—and when the crooks had spotted Tony in his Iron Man suit, and Thor with his intimidating hammer, he and his ski mask-clad buddies had given up right then. That was a surprisingly smart move for a bunch of hoodlums. Generally the City police could handle something like that—but the owner of the tech hadn't wanted any officials involved. And so Tony and Thor took the quinjet back to the tower landing strip. He removed his armor, and strode into the main room of the building, glad that he did not have to exert himself with his injuries still healing. He was also relieved that Enchantress had not been heard from—that it was not her who the Avengers had been contacted about. Maybe they would get lucky—maybe she would just pack her bags and head back to Asgard.

"JARVIS, put my mp3 file collection on shuffle, low volume, please—oh, and make sure you don't accidentally play any Shikira this time—I swear, I don't know how that got on there, must have been Pepper's playlist." Tony spins on his heel, busying himself with pouring drinks—one for Thor, should he desire one, and a few more for either Clint, Bruce, or Loki, should they venture tentatively out of their respective hiding places; if not, Tony would simply have to drink them all himself—as not to waste anything, of course.

"Right away, Sir."

"I really need to get out of here—get back into the swing of things, you know?" He grabs a glass of Jack Daniels and addresses the room, not talking to anyone in particular. "I'm losing it, being trapped in here with the world's most extreme recluses. I need the nightlife—I need—" he pauses, snaps his fingers, looking for a word, "Fun."

When Thor enters the room, Tony hands him a drink while humming along with the Black Sabbath song that plays faintly in the background. "That was a lucky break, huh?" Tony asks, leaning against the counter.

Thor stands awkwardly before taking a seat on the leather couch. He glances around, as if looking for someone, and Tony's stomach drops. There was always the possibility that, one day, they would return to find the tower completely empty—to find Loki gone, vanished. Tony only hoped that, should he leave, it would be on his own terms, not captured by some thugs who fancied a reward from Asgard's golden halls. Then again—magic or no magic—Loki was more than capable of putting up a fight. Thor nods slowly, a grin spreading across his face, however forced it is. "Indeed, it was an easy victory—though I rather craved the thrill of a good battle."

"You're just the god I wanted to see—if there's anyone in this building—besides me—who knows how to have a good time, it's you, Sparky," he says with a smirk, "Go get your bro and let's go out."

"You've had a lot of stupid ideas, Stark—" Tony turns, his lips puckered in a pout, as Clint appears in the doorway, a towel draped around his sweaty neck. "But taking Loki into the City to go clubbing—that has to top everything on the stupidity level."

Tony pointedly cups a hand to his ear. "I'm sorry—did you hear something, Thor? It sounded like a little, annoying chirping sound—or whatever it is that birds do?"

Thor looks confused. "I hear nothing—"

Tony rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Thor, obviously there are a few mortal phrases and expressions that Jane still needs to fill you in on." He eyes Clint, who gladly and purposefully takes a drink from the bar beside Tony. "Who said you were even invited, bird-boy?"

"It's just not smart to take a psychotic, genocidal lunatic to a party, that's all. I mean, the guy's barely hanging on—he's about to have a meltdown right now."

Tony can't help but grimace at the adjective choices. "Come on, you hang out with unstable psychos at S.H.I.E.L.D all day long." Tony points out. "You know what your problem is, Clint—well, one of them? You don't know how to have fun."

"Oh, I know how to have fun." Clint shrugs, downing his glass of alcohol in one gulp. "Just not with you."

Tony bites his lip. "Not thinking dirty thoughts about you and Tasha. Nope." Clint exists the room with a groan of annoyance. "Fine—we don't want to hang out with you anyway." He glances down at Thor. "You in, buddy?"

Thor's eyebrows knit together, his smile fading. "I have been thinking about you and Roger's suspicions, and I fear that they might be correct. If that is true, then perhaps I should take Loki from this place and find somewhere safe to keep him."

Tony feels like someone has punched him in the gut. He can feel his energy draining at the mention of Loki—of everything that has happened. "No—no. If taking Loki is really Amora's game plan, then we'll track her down and stop her before it comes to that." Selfish, selfish, selfish. Tony ignores his inner monologue. "Look, Thor—that's not a good idea. We need you here—the team—and Loki needs you, even if he won't admit it. There is no way Amora gets to him here, in the safest place there is, protected by the Avengers."

"But if the All-father truly has sent warriors and hunters after my brother, then there will be more, even if Amora is stopped. When I freed Loki from his prison—usually my brother can hide himself from the gaze of Asgard's gatekeeper—but not in the state he was in. Though there is a possibility, I do not doubt that Heimdall saw us leave that realm and journey to Midgard—and he is sworn to obey Odin's commands, so it is likely that my father knows of Loki's escape."

Tony swears under his breath. "Damn—and I thought my relationship with my father was bad." He nearly chokes on his drink when he spots Loki by the elevator, leaning against the wall. "Oh, hey, kiddo. Don't worry—mommy and I weren't fighting, just having a disagreement."

Loki strokes his chin thoughtfully as he walks forward. "Barton was right, it would seem. You have been keeping information from me."

Tony shrugs. "That's a little hypocritical, isn't it? I mean, you've been lying to me about the stone this entire time."

"Brother—" Thor interrupts, standing. "Do not worry—"

Loki turns on him with a snarl. "Be silent, Thor. I will not speak with you."

"I will not leave you, brother." Thor stands firm, arms folded across his chest.

"I'm guessing you just heard that entire conversation?" Tony asks.

"Enough to know that you think me a cowering child, in need of coddling and protective lies." Loki's jade eyes are narrowed with rage. "You swore to me that you did not think me lesser than yourself."

Tony blinks, taken aback by Loki's anger and, more interestingly, what he was saying. The fact that Loki is so upset tells him something—that Loki actually cares about how Tony views him, and that—however little and fragile the trust was—Loki had trusted him. There is something very off about Loki—more than the normal off—and Tony knows that something has changed in the few hours that he and Thor have been gone. Was Loki afraid? Or was it more of an acceptance? Loki has been in a state of denial about his situation since he came to Stark Tower. Now the wall was down—momentarily—leaving Loki exposed. Tony shakes his head. "Look—Loki, it's not like we weren't going to tell you. I wasn't sure if Amora was after you or not, or if she was just interested in Thor like you said—and I still don't know if she really is after you."

"You need not involve yourself in this. If she means to come for me, then so be it."

Tony steps forward cautiously, reaching out. He places a hand on Loki's forearm, tense, but willing to show that he is physically there for him. Loki glares down at Stark's hand, but does not recoil. "Don't say that. Don't even think about that, okay?" Tony pauses, unsure of what to say. If Loki really was suggesting that he would let Amora take him back to Asgard, then there was something seriously wrong. "No more lies. From now on, I'll tell you everything I know, and you'll at least try to be more honest with me about anything you know. I know you don't want our help—but Thor dragged us all into this, and we're involved no matter how much you don't want us to be. There, I said it."

Loki eyes him, half curious, half suspicious. "Why?" He asks, a humorless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If the All-father is so desperate to return me to my prison, why should I not allow it? It would only serve to prove me right in my allegedly false reasoning—in my so-called deceitful, deranged crusade against Asgard and its lying king. If the people desire a sacrifice, a wicked frost giant for Asgard's golden son to slay, then why not give it to them? That is what I want."

Thor's face twists in pain over his brother's words, but he does not dare to approach him. "Loki, how can you say such things? How can you resign yourself to an eternity of torture just to spite Odin and to nurse your own misery? You may have deserved imprisonment, Loki, but never that. I will not let you return—I saved you—"

"I never asked for—"

"Stop it—just stop. Jeez, I feel like I'm watching one of Pepper's Soaps." Tony is going to explode if he hears anymore—he's going to explode and beat the crap—and hopefully the pigheadedness—out of the Odinsons until there is nothing left and they are so disoriented that they suddenly get along with each other. That was totally plausible. He lets out an exasperated cry. "Way to kill my good mood." Tony turns back to Loki, looks him dead in the eyes, searching for some sign of recognition. "I know you don't believe that. We can still fix this. I swear on my life—I promise you that you will never go back to that place, not as long as we're around. I won't let that happen. I promise."

"How can you possibly expect me to trust you? How can I believe what you say?"

"You just have to. We can find a way to stop Enchantress, and we'll just have to figure out our next step from there."

There is a rare moment of silence between the three. Tony glances from Thor to Loki, taking an awkward step back when he realizes that Loki's arm is still in his grasp. He clears his throat. "Now, back to business—" Tony folds claps his hands together, "Dinner and a casino? No—wait—that's a little too weird with just dudes. How about a musical? I bet you'd like a musical, Loki—you seem the high school drama club type. Okay, scratch that—that's worse. We need some females to balance this out." He thinks of inviting Natasha. Pepper is out of the question—there is no way he will allow Pepper anywhere near Loki, especially when there is a deadly sorcerer and her ax-wielding bodyguard after him.

Loki's eyebrows rise at the suggestion, as if he is confused. Thor looks mildly interested—always eager to experience more Midgardian culture. Tony wonders absently how long it has been since Loki has been invited anywhere. He groans. "Screw it. Let the tabloids think I'm experimenting with brooding Asgardian male models. I don't care—lets go somewhere."

* * *

 

Loki leisurely buttons up the front of his indigo silk shirt—the one that Stark had an assistant of Pepper's personally pick out from a rather expensive Midgardian shopping district. His fingers fumble over the buttons, eyes glazed, distant. Thor stands off to the side, waiting. He appraises his own choice of Midgardian garment—a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans—searching for something to say to ease the strained silence. "This is appropriate attire for an evening out, yes?" Thor inquires gruffly, gesturing to his clothing.

Loki does not bother to give him a passing glance, his back to Thor as he leans over the bathroom sink. "You are the one who is so infatuated with the mortals, not I. You should know." He twists his neck to give Thor a scathing look. "Why do you look at me in such a way?"

Thor is genuinely baffled. "In what way, brother?"

Loki's tone takes on a bitter, irritated edge. "That oafish, idiotic expression—like you have just defeated some foul enemy in battle and search for approval."

"I suppose I am merely pleased that you are in good health, and that we are together."

"This changes nothing."

"I do not understand what you mean, brother."

Loki lets out a low, condescending chortle. "Is that not always the case with you, Thor—not understanding?" He grips the porcelain sides of the sink as the automatic faucet roars to life with a rush of water. "Do not mistake this momentary truce—this outing with Stark—as anything other than what it is—a standstill, until I recover and find some way to escape this damned realm. Nothing has changed."

Thor's brow creases, a tightness filling his chest. "Why do you feel the compulsion to constantly remind me of your resentment at every meeting?"

"Obviously I must repeat myself, seeing as how my words do not seem to penetrate your thick, empty skull. That, or you refuse to listen. You have never listened."

He clenches his jaw, striding over to the bed and sitting down stiffly. "I listen, Loki—perhaps I did not in the past. I listen, but I will not accept your ranting as truth."

Loki growls, turning his face away from Thor. "Then you are a bigger fool than I thought."

"Why?" Thor questions, yearning to understand Loki's reasoning, the pain and conflict that hunches his shoulders and makes him shudder with hatred. "Why cannot things go back to the way they were? Surely there were moments of fondness, of brotherhood between us that have not been marred by your grudges? We have fought many foes together, Loki, and we fight together still—until Amora is vanquished."

"That life—those childhood memories are nothing more than a pretty lie. I have never been a brother of yours. You just expect me to fall back in line behind you—to return to being eclipsed by your shadow, forever your subordinate—your lesser—the great contrast to your inherent goodness? I would rather die than return to that hollow illusion."

"That is not true. Loki, you are my equal—"

Loki nearly doubles over with his sick laugher, baring no humor or light. "Oh, how

you mock me. How simple you make it sound."

Thor sighs. "It can be simple—you just overcomplicate everything."

Loki does not respond. Thor watches, seething, as Loki cups his pale hands under the running tap and collects water, bringing it slowly to his face to wash. The sink shuts off—several drops of water plop onto the drain stopper. Loki flinches, body going rigid.

"Loki," Thor jumps to his feet, rushing to the doorway, "What—"

A ragged cry interrupts him as Loki backs wildly into the opposite wall, sliding to the floor. He claws blindly at his skin as water droplets roll down his face.

"Are you hurt? What is wrong—has Amora—"

"Thor—" Loki twitches, clasping his brother's arms violently, "Make it stop—please." His breathing is ragged, hitching with anguish.

"Be at peace, brother. You are safe." Thor helplessly grasps Loki's shoulders, giving him a firm shake, trying to snap him out of whatever fit has taken hold of his mind. "I promise you, you have been saved."

Loki tentatively reaches up to feel and prod the flesh on his face, over his eyelids—along his neck and further down still. He breathes in deeply, swallows hard. "I felt—" He frowns. "I thought I was—"

"I know." Thor, mindful of Loki's space and embarrassment, releases him and steps away, allowing him room. He looks away. "I will leave you to collect yourself." When he turns to exit, he is shocked by Loki's movement—his hesitant reaching movement, as if wanting to call him back.

Loki opens his mouth to speak. "Thor—" He stops himself as Thor halts, his jade eyes suddenly narrowing.

"Yes, brother?"

"Nothing." His voice is cold.

* * *

 

When Thor finds Stark waiting impatiently on the main floor, he considers informing him of loki's disturbing fit, and calling off the outing into the City. Before he can begin forming the sentences, however, Loki emerges from behind the doorway, looking a little shaken, but relatively in his right mind.

"Okay, losers—to the limo."

Thor exchanges a look with Loki, relieved to see that Loki is just as confused as he is as to what a 'limo' is. It is not long before the group is headed to the lobby of Stark Tower, greeted by a driver, and headed out into the City streets. Stark is pointing out the theater district—the lights, the giant posters—when the limousine is struck with such force that all three passengers are sent into the floor, the limo swerving and screeching—sparks flying, metal tearing and shredding as Skurge's ax plows through the glossy black hood. The last thing Thor sees before his vision goes blurry and dark from the impact is the passenger door being ripped off of its hinges, and Amora's silhouette against the flashing lights.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony's head spins, black dots swimming in his vision, bursting in his brain—behind his eyes. There is a hunched figure in his line of sight—on the floor of the upside-down limo—and in the reflection of the glass and the lights, the figure has city-light-glare wings. Am I dead? The earth shakes.

How did I get on the ceiling? Tony reels from the impact—dazed, disoriented. He can taste blood in his mouth—chokes on it, his lip busted and swollen, dripping down his chin. The sounds around him are too sharp—to strong and loud, coming from every direction. Screams—the metallic shriek of the door being wrenched free—glass shattering. His body aches and he is sure that his healing collarbone has been injured further. He struggles to move—to get up—to fight his way through the haze and the pain. Loki. Tony struggles to his knees, fumbles around in the mess for his briefcase that contains his armor.

"Thor—get him out—" Tony croaks. He wipes a hand over his face and it comes away red. Focus, Tony. The case—the suit—he has to find the armor. "Get Loki out." But Thor is already gone. Tony belly-crawls across the ground, somehow finding his briefcase in the wreckage, and makes his way laboriously to Loki's body. He's not unconscious—but he's not exactly moving or trying to escape either.

"C'mon—we gotta get out of here," Tony rests his hand on Loki's back, urging him to go in front of him—finds the door, wrenches it open. Tony falls on his stomach, clambering out of the wrecked limo door behind the God of Mischief just as it goes spinning and rolling across the road. He watches as Thor's hammer clashes with Skurge's ax, creating a blinding flash—surreal.

Loki is on his feet in an instant, standing slightly in front of Tony, as Tony franticly opens the case and allows the suit to mold to his body. Tony swears that Loki's stance is almost protective as he shields him while he suits-up—but that could be his addled brain conjuring sentimental tripe. The helmet covers his face, and Tony is not Tony anymore—he is Iron Man, and people are in danger.

"Stark—" Thor shouts, still struggling against the Executioner's blade. "The civilians—you must keep them clear of the battle—" By this point, police and an ambulance have arrived due to the crash—Tony only hopes they have sense enough not to get involved, and to keep people away from the scene.

"Right. Got it." Tony blasts off to the side of the street, prepared to order pedestrians out of the way and to fight off any attacks that might come their way, when the green energy strikes. Amora looks different in her suit of pale green and her crown, her long blonde hair unbidden and whipping across her face—like a goddess. She stands in a wide stance—ready for battle. Tony flinches as his screen flickers and dies, the power dying with it, and before he plummets helplessly to the ground, Skurge catches him in a death grip. "Woah—hold up there, Big Guy—I don't usually get this physical on the first date—" He can sense the attack before it happens, and he braces himself as the giant Asgardian grabs him and plows him like a rag doll into the pavement. Tony reels from the blow, remaining relatively unharmed, but unable to move. Being thrown around by Asgardians is becoming a pattern.

"My quarrel is not with you, Thor Odinson. I do not wish to harm you." Amora's voice, firm and cold—and Tony, helplessly stuck in his suit, can only watch as Thor confronts the sorceress.

"Enchantress—stop this madness at once. Why have you come to Midgard?" Thor raises Mjolnir threateningly, but does not attack the woman just yet.

Amora feigns surprise. "Do you not know, Thunderer? I have been sent here on a quest given to me by the All-father himself, to retrieve the escaped prisoner." She nods to Loki, who is somehow untouched by her sorcery and glaring at her.

Thor growls under his breath, taking an aggressive step forward. Amora holds up her hands as if in surrender, but there is energy pulsating around her fingers, ready to strike. "I would speak to the All-father myself. It was not one of Loki's schemes that brought about his escape—I freed him, and I will thus carry the blame. Your quarrel is indeed with me if you threaten my brother and the safety of this realm."

"You still call him brother after what he has done to Asgard—to Midgard? He is a traitor to your people, and he would betray you in a heartbeat." Enchantress laughs lightly. "Surrender Loki and none of your precious mortals will be harmed."

"Do you think it wise to challenge my strength in battle?" Thor chuckles smugly. "You will have to best me in combat to get to Loki. He has paid for his crimes and is under my protection."

"Paid for his crimes?" Amora shakes her head, true pity clear on her face. "Loki does not deserve a brother as forgiving as you."

"I grow weary of this useless banter, Enchantress. Back down or I will fight you."

"Thor, your brother betrays you even now, after you saved him selflessly from his just punishment. He bargained for his freedom with the life of your mortal woman, vowing to reveal her location to me to be destroyed at the will of the All-father."

Thor freezes—grips Mjolnir tight, glances between Amora and Loki, unsure. He snarls, turning to his brother. "Loki, does she speak truth?"

Tony's stomach drops. He struggles to move, to get to his feet, but the green energy holds him in place and keeps his technology dead. Thor looks ready to kill. "Thor—Thor, don't—"

Suddenly, Thor is entangled by tendrils of green magic, Mjolnir fallen and encased in a dome of pure energy. Thor struggles against the wisps of energy that pull him to his knees on the ground him and keep him immobile, face reddening with the effort. With a cry of rage and frustration, Thor is held by the magic, forcing him onto his back on the pavement.

Amora holds up his hands, tense with concentration as her conjured sorcery pins the mighty God of Thunder to the ground. "Enough of this. I willtake Loki to Asgard."

Loki stares on as the scene unfolds, unimpressed. The exposed skin on his face and arms are injured from the crash, a gash on his forehead bleeding freely. "We have made good allies in the past, Dear Amora, surely we can come to an agreement." He's playing her…he's acting.

With a flourish of her hands, the Snaptun stone appears in Amora's grasp, clutched against her chest. "Why would I ever trust you after you tricked me? The stone is powerless."

"You did have fair warning, Amora. I am called the God of Lies, am I not?" Loki smirks. "If the stone is so base and valueless, I would have it back." Loki replies. Tony recalls their conversation in the hotel room.

A curious expression takes hold of the Enchatntress' face. "Tis not quite useless, for it does have special qualities. I took the stone to Karnilla, and to the Norns, to learn of its sorcery. I learned many things on my journey."

Loki's lips tug at a snarl. "I care not for vague and cryptic mumblings. If there is a point to this petty wordplay, do get to it quickly."

"The stone showed me much—not with its power, but with the knowledge of its maker. It was carved by a mortal nearly a century before the event depicted took place. The Norns knew of your punishment, and of your future chained under the viper. You will spend an eternity in chains, and you and the monsters you birth will bring Ragnarok upon us all." She pauses, allowing the words—spoken softly, gently—to sink in. "It is fated to happen. You cannot escape—for even if you defeat me today, you will reach your destiny another way."

"Enough." Loki roars, poised to strike. Amora tenses as if afraid, though it is clear she knows that Loki possesses no sorcery. "You will let me go free."

"I would not take any deal you offered me, Sly One."

"I am not offering you a trade any longer. I am offering you a choice—let me flee, or I will kill your beloved Thor."

Enchantress raises her eyebrows, though her eyes flash with fear. "You would not do such a thing, Liesmith." She drops the stone and rushes forward in a burst of energy and grabs the god by the throat, hoisting him into the air. "You would not dare. You are without your powers, Loki—and you will surrender and come with me to meet your fate."

"You dare tempt me? You dare to issue me such a challenge, knowing that I will not hesitate?" Loki leans into Amora's grasp on his throat, eyes burning, teeth bared in a snarl. "You are pathetic—ruled by your infantile, ambitionless, and utterly pointless need for affection. By my troth, you will regret provoking me, wench."

Tony strains against Skurge's imprisoning arms. Amora's long blonde hair whips around her face in the evening breeze, her grip tightening around Loki's throat, making him gasp. "You are bluffing, Trickster. You are a liar. Even with all your wrath, you would not kill the Thunderer—not with your debt to him unfulfilled, after he delivered you from your eternal torment."

Loki laughs with the little breath he has left in his lungs—his fingers tangling in Amora's hair, tugging mercilessly until she flinches, but she still does falter in her crushing hold on him. "Thor means nothing to me. Spilling his blood will bring me no guilt—no sorrow or remorse—only vengeance."

Pressing her lips to his cheek, Enchantress smiles, whispering sweetly, "Prove it."

"Unhand me and I shall." After a moment of silence, of hesitation and unblinking stares—confliction and struggled readings of motives and minds—Loki is free. He stumbles, barely able to stand or collect himself as the Enchantress releases him from her chokehold. He hunches over, chuckling through shaky gasps—his dark hair falling over his face, hiding his features. "I shall need a weapon." Tony is watching with helpless, shocked awe, unable to move, to do anything. There is a clatter of harsh metal against cement as Amora reluctantly conjures a silver dagger at his feet.

"Loki—stop." Tony shouts.

Loki winces. He presses his fingers to his temples—trying to silence the roars, to ease the throbbing ache. He stands straighter. Thor—who struggles most determinedly against Amora's magical binding—is darkened by Loki's elongated shadow as he walks forward, engulfed and swallowed by it as the figure looms over him. Loki gazes down, expression blank, at Thor's powerless form. They lock eyes—Loki looks away. He flexes his hand around the hilt of the gleaming knife—twirls it in his fingers.

"Brother—"

Loki kneels on the pavement—his knees giving way and buckling beneath him, and barely catches himself from falling to his belly on the ground. He can feel Stark's eyes on him—watching, waiting—Amora watching with bated breath—Thor watching. The Thunder God's blue eyes are surprisingly and uncharacteristically dull, as if resigned to his fate—to the fact that his existence rests with his brother. Loki inhales raggedly—nearly collapsing from his exhaustion. Thor's silence is unnerving. "Not going to plead for mercy—or try to convince me to spare you?" Loki asks, but his tone lacks any triumph or morbid satisfaction.

"If this—if this is what you need—"

Loki feels his lips tug at a smirk. Rage fills him—turning black the edges of his mind, his composure lost. "Why do you look at me like that?" He demands with a shout, "Why do you not look upon me with disgust and hatred like everyone else?" He turns away briefly, hands trembling.

"I knew you were misleading me, Loki." Amora taunts with smug satisfaction—though there is true doubt and fear in her eyes—fear that her precious Thor will be lost to her if her challenge is accepted. "Now, come with me and let us end this. You cannot run from your fate forever."

Loki closes his eyes. He growls with rage and, gripping the weapon tightly, poises the blade over the Thunderer's heart. With his other hand, Loki roughly holds Thor's jaw. Loki lets out a noise from his lips—something stuck between a sick parody of a giggle and a kind of panicked intake of breath, lowering himself so that his face is mere inches from Thor's. "We always knew it would end like this," He purrs, false tenderness leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His eyes flick to Amora—making sure she is watching. Perhaps she will stop him—perhaps not.

Thor meets Loki's gaze. "Loki—you must think—"

"I tried to bargain my way out of this—out of Amora's petty scheme—I offered to tell her where your lovely wanton mortal is hidden—" His face is a sick parody of a smile, "I would have."

Thor's face is a blank mask. Not the reaction he expected—wanted,needed. Can he tell that Loki is stalling? No—no, not stalling. Savoring. Not stalling. "I want you to plead for your life—I want—I want you—" He sputters, blade point pressing lightly against the fabric of Thor's shirt. He searches for loathing—for the anger that Thor had been so very good at conjuring on a whim in their youth. He searches for disgust. He finds only sorrow and affection in Thor's eyes.

Damn him.

* * *

 

_Thor knew he should have come sooner—centuries sooner. He is made physically ill by the sight before him—his face wet with immeasurable sorrow—at the twisted, broken, hopelessly damaged and emaciated form. This prison—this twisted, dank and rotting place, tucked between the branches of Yggrasil—is surely cursed and the most foul place in all the realms. The air is thick and humid, stagnant—dead; he can feel the screams, the cries, hanging in it, suspended for centuries—unheard. "Loki—"_

_"Who is Loki?"_

_Thor starts. Had Loki even spoken? That voice—so strange, so foreign—so dry and cracked from disuse—weak. How could he have spoken with his face disfigured so? Thor falls to his knees. "Loki is—" he pauses. What a question that was—so complicated, rife with pain, when it should be so childishly simple. "He is my brother."_

_The dead, weak voice chuckles—a sick gurgling sound—hitching and choking as another drop of gleaming venom falls, sizzling and burning through a slowly healing patch of new, pale skin._

* * *

 

_"Loki Odinson—" The All-father's voice rings through the sacred halls of The Thing—echoing, powerful and absolute, off of the gold-gilded walls, the high ceilings. Loki hisses at the name—at the mocking insult, the association to Odin and his false, bitter usage of the name. "You have hereby been sentenced for your crimes against Asgard, Jotunheim, Midgard, and all other realms marred and poisoned by your thirst for blood, to be chained under the Serpent between the branches of Yggdrasil, until Ragnarok."_

_Odin's ravens—Huginn and Muninn—squawk and caw with mimicked laugher and amusement. Their cries mix and swirl with the sounds of hushed gasps, whispers, curses and snickers from the court. They are vultures—all of them._

_"Father—"_

_Loki feels a growl rise in his throat at Thor's interjection of protest. Not even in his moment of judgment can the righteous and noble Thor allow him the rare attention and gaze of the All-father—something that he had once so foolishly and desperately sought. The poor, deluded and weak Prince of Asgard—a pathetic seeker of praise. How he would cherish such attention now—have hidden it away, cradled it._

_"Silence, Thor. My judgment stands." The All-father's staff clangs against the floor—as firm, commanding and cruel as his tone—sending a shockwave of chills through Loki's body. "I will give you one small kindness, my son. Should anyone take pity on you offer himself to catch the drops of scorching poison in a bowl, may he step forward and venture into that cursed realm with you."_

_The quiet is tangible—thick in the air, catching in Loki's lungs—so very telling. He relishes in it—feeding his hate. It blossoms in his chest—unfurling and wrapping around his mind, shutting out the fear._

_When Frigga steps forward, her eyes red and gleaming, Loki sneers. Odin shakes his head. "I beg of you, my husband—he is our son—my baby boy—" Frigga cries, tears spilling over. Odin quiets her with a raise of his hand._

_The silence remains._

_Loki laughs—bubbling over with hysteria—cruel laugher that steals the breath from him and makes his chest ache. Were he not held roughly by the guards, his amusement would force him to double over and gasp for air. He doesn't know why his vision blurs—not when he has won—has proven himself correct. It leaves him hollow. Frigga buries her face in Thor's chest, her sobs uncontrollable. People turn away in disgust of the remorseless monster—muttering hateful swears and insults under their breath at the fallen Prince._

_"So be it."_

* * *

_He has brought this on himself—Thor tries to reason, to convince himself of Odin's just and rightful judgment. He tries desperately to find the logic, the reason—but finds none. He finds only wrong and hurt—this man who is not even coherent enough to know his own name. The burning coals of anger cool into pity and forgiveness._

_He thinks now that he should have pleaded further with the All-father—should have groveled and begged for him to give Loki a lighter sentence. But the All-father had claimed that he knew what he was doing—that the sentence pained him, but it was necessary—it was fated. Thor had asked Odin to reconsider—to make him see that there was a horrible madness in Loki—that punishing him in such a way would only make it worse. He had wished that Loki would have fought—would have defended himself and his actions. But Loki had said nothing in court. He had not spoken much at all after the muzzle had been removed from his face—silver tongue freed. He had screamed—shouted curses and insults—raged. And then the rage had subsided into laugher. And after that—after he was too weak—to out of breath to go on—Loki had remained silent. Part of him had wanted Loki to escape._

_Thor has never been gentle in any sense—but his touch is controlled, soft, and even hesitant as he smoothes Loki's hopelessly matted hair from his ruined face. He has to be gentle in this moment to gain any form of trust he can, for escape requires a brutality that Thor no longer feels himself capable of. "I do not wish to harm you, brother," Thor whispers. Loki leans into the physical contact, unsure, but desperate._

_The slow building of venom at the tip of the unmoving viper's giant fang urges him to action. An empty bowl lies abandoned and unused by the rock—mocking. He steels himself, bracing. Still clutching Loki's unresponsive hand in his, Thor raises Mjolnir high above his head, and prepares to bring it down upon the enchanted chains that bind his little brother to the jagged rock on which he is splayed. Loki's wrists and ankles will surely be crushed—and Thor hopes that that will be the worse of the damage, for the blow could kill him—but one more moment of agony cannot mean much to this silent, ghost of a man who has endured centuries of constant, unbearable pain. "I am so sorry, brother."_

* * *

Tony watches in muted horror as Loki leans down and presses his forehead to Thor's in a kind of intimacy—raising the glinting dagger high. "I am so sorry, brother." In an instant, he swings around and throws the weapon—a silver flash in the evening light—straight at Amora. Thor is released from the hold of the enchantment—instantly on his feet and calling to Mjolnir with his outstretched hand as Amora is forced to block the speeding dagger aimed at her heart. "Skurge—" Amora cries out as the Thunderer advances on her.

His power restored to his suit, Tony's repulsors flare and shudder as he struggles not to plummet to the pavement below. He lets out a shout of excitement as he soars into the night air, targets locking on the giant, ax-wielding Asgaridian and sending a volley of mini explosives straight for him. He is grinning like a madman, despite his injuries and that knot that has formed in his stomach from the scenes he has just witnessed—because, for whatever the reason—be it selfish or out mercy—Loki had chosen to spare Thor in that moment.

Skruge braces himself against the onslaught of rockets, most of them striking the thick metal armor of his chest plate, causing little damage and bouncing off like insects. Tony swears under his breath. Time to bring out the big guns. Before Tony can launch anymore weapons, Thor's hammer flies across and collides with Skurge, sending him roughly to the ground. "Nice one, Thor," Tony calls as he hovers in the air. He spots the stone on the ground and makes a dive for it. "Mine."

While Skurge is still reeling from the blow Thor advances on the unprotected Enchantress, Mjolnir raised high. "Surrender now, Amora," Thor warns, voice gruff and strained. Amora holds up her hands, as if giving up, and then vanishes. Thor narrows his eyes, startled.

"Come and fight me, Odinson." The words come from far away, echoing oddly off of the buildings. She stands atop one of the shops' roof, green energy billowing from her fingertips. Thor launches himself into the air with a frustrated growl, following after her.

The Executioner rises with an angry groan, ax swinging. Tony flies forward, aiming more missiles at the massive god. He turns to Loki, who in still kneeling on the ground. "Hot potato." He shouts, tossing the stone his way. Dazed, Loki manages to catch it.

Tony laughs, dodging a hit from Skurge. He can feel the burst of wind as the ax slices through the air, narrowly missing him. He blasts the mammoth with his repulsors, weaving and ducking to avoid more blows. Suddenly, Tony is thrown from the sky, sent plummeting to the pavement and into the side of a building—a powerful force pushing him backward. Stunned, Tony tries to get to his feet.

"Now that the mortal and the Thunderer are distracted—" Amora appears—her double still keeping Thor occupied. Loki jumps up and takes a defensive stance, jaw clenched. They trade blows, Loki blocking her swift attacks of concentrated energy and striking at her with his fists. They dance around each other—equally matched, even without Loki's sorcery. He blocks her attack with his forearm—she dodges a blow to the gut.

"There is no escape, Loki," Amora hisses, capturing both of Loki's wrists in a magic hold in her hands. Loki struggles against her grasp, eyes going wide as wisps of energy surround them. "You can either come willingly with me now to your fate, or be dragged, begging and pleading like a coward to Asgard's gates—if not by me, then by others. You have no other options, Trickster."

Amora looks mildly confused when Loki bares his teeth in a wolfish grin, a small chuckle escaping his throat. "I always have other options." There is gasp as Loki's skin turns a deep royal blue from the fingers down, Amora releasing his wrists with an anguished cry and holding her blackened, frost-bitten hands to her chest.

Tony's rush of triumph is short-lived. Loki flees from Amora's side, only to turn to face Skurge, who lumbers to a standing position. With a yell, Skurge lunges forward towards the God of Mischief, who merely stands still, a smile on his face. It is a look of acceptance—of resignation.

"Skurge, no— we need him alive—" Amora's pained shouts go unheard by the Asgardian warrior.

"JARVIS, put all power into the repulsors. Now."

"Done, Sir."

The Executioner lifts his ax and swings it down at Loki with all of his might. Tony rockets through the air in a flash of red and blinding light that makes his armor tremble with the force of the thrusters. He bites his lip—breath caught in his throat—chanting, praying, a race against the falling ax. There is a blinding flash of light—a shriek of metal meeting concrete and ax meeting metal—a howl of rage and surprise. Skruge falls over onto his back on the ground, unconscious from the repulsor blast.

Tony allows himself to keel over. Clutching his damaged shoulder tightly, he expects an unpleasant impact with the pavement, only to find himself caught by strong arms and lowered to the ground. The armor around his shoulder is cracked and sparking from where the ax blade fell—leaving circuits and wires exposed. He allows his head to loll backwards, gazing up to see Loki looking down at him through his screen.

"No—Skurge—"

The sharp yell is a prelude to a blast of green energy that nearly engulfs Tony. He braces himself, expecting the worst—expecting more pain—and shuts his eyes against the sorcery. Nothing happens. When Tony opens his eyes, he no longer sees Amora—just Loki, standing in front of him, still in his Frost Giant form. He watches, confused and disoriented, as Loki's hands dart through the air and dissipate the green energy into nothing.

There is a sound like birds' wings fluttering, and then a muffled thud as Thor lands beside them. There is a brief silence, in which the three wounded men can hear the distant noises of the city—the sirens, the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier that circles above them—people, a mass of unintelligible murmurings.

"Enchantress—" Tony asks, "Is she gone? Did she Houdini herself out of here or something?"

Thor's rough voice answers, solemn. "She is gone. It is over."

Tony exhales sharply, letting out a shaky laugh. He sits up suddenly, eyes darting around for something, searching the ground. He sighs, shakes his head. "Did you have a warranty on that thing?" He jokes, though he is genuinely miffed that the stone—the object that has caused all of the mischief and mayhem—has been shattered into pieces by the blast of the repulsors. _Shattered stone—shattered god. Now it really is a self-portrait_.

* * *

 

Tony watches, hands folded, fingers locked and propping up his weary head. He blinks slowly, lids drooping hopelessly. He is exhausted, to put it lightly—but, good God, his tiredness is surely nothing compared to this broken man before him, whose shoulders slump under the pressure of his mind and the weight of his mistakes. It is a familiar image—too familiar—distressingly so.Stop projecting, Tony. But, try as he might, Tony cannot help but compare himself to this lone figure—if only to selfishly find a kind of sick comfort in finding that perhaps Tony is not as screwed up in the head as Loki is. But there was also hope in this juxtaposition—the hope that Loki can be saved.

Loki has mythology of his own with out being tied to Tony's story with a petty comparison. Loki has his own story—his own fall—his own tearjerker. This man—god—whatever—is Tantalus, the comfort and nourishment of life-giving water and sustenance forever deprived from him, out of his reach—Icarius with broken wings from flying too high—Tityos—Promethus—and worst of all, Loki. Loki is flesh and Loki is real—not like the figures of literature who met similar fates—because though he has committed horrible sins out of spite and ruthless ambition, his horror has been real—is real. Loki has suffered for his crimes—a punishment that seemed too brutal for anything outside of myth.

Tony absently rubs the bandages on his shoulder. The ride back to Stark tower had been awkward, to say the least. Thor and Loki had not said a word to each other on the helicarrier, and so Tony had considered it up to him alone to provide the group with conversation. Natasha had been on the carrier, having watched most of the scenes unfold from the jet—it had been her who had rightly ordered the agents not to gun Loki down when he had been kneeling over Thor's body with the dagger—a good call on her part. He wanted to know why—why she had decided to give him a chance—not to shoot—but it was not a topic he could just bring up in front of the two complicated gods. Loki's cuts had been treated by medics, along with Tony's bloodied shoulder. It was lucky, really, that the cuts and scrapes had been the only damage sustained during their fight.

After they arrived at the tower, Thor had gone off to make a phone call to Jane, and Loki had stalked off on his own, silent. Tony had gone straight for the bar, only to be intercepted by a very angry and worried Pepper. Naturally, in the late hours of the night, when Tony had wandered into one of his workrooms, unable to sleep, he had found Loki waiting there for him.

"Tell me, Stark, do you believe in fate—in hap?" Loki's voice is hollow—low and silky. He turns to meet Stark's imploring gaze, and Tony, suddenly conscious of his own staring, glances away.

Tony scratches absently at his stubble, letting out a deep sigh. "You're asking the wrong person. I don't believe in much. Besides, what do you care what a mere mortal thinks anyway?" There is truth in his words. Tony does not believe in much—not in magic or a God who gives a damn, or in most people. Tony believes in science—the science that has saved his life more times than he can count.

"Perhaps I value your opinions and your counsel. What then, Stark? Would you oblige me?" Loki's lips tug at a small smile. "Do you believe that one can be destined—that one's fate cannot be avoided?"

Tony ponders this, eyes closing warily. "This is about what Amora said—about the stone." It is not a question—it is a statement. His stomach constricts.

Nodding slowly, Loki strides over to one of the large, transparent screens that line the wall of Tony's workroom, his back to him, hands clasped. "If what she claimed is true—of the Norns and the stone—of Ragnarok, and the birthing of beasts—"

"Then what?" Tony snaps, standing to his feet, "What? You're just going to throw yourself back into that hellhole? You're just going to lie down and submit because some toll-free telephone fortune-teller told you to?"

"What would you have me do, Stark?"

"Fight. Fight with everything you got. You can't go back to the Hurt Locker if you're here with me—with Thor."

Loki chuckles lightly, bitterly. "You mortals do not understand the ways of the All-father and the Norns. You may not swallow the idea of destiny—but you have been touched by fate yourself." Loki spins around and strides forward quickly, suddenly face-to-face with Tony. Tony jolts slightly as Loki's burning green eyes meet his own, and as Loki's icy fingers reach out to his chest.

Tony's heart races, "What are you—"

Loki ignores Tony's startled murmurings. His fingers feel pleasantly cool against Tony's chest, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. Loki's hand rests on the arc reactor—his face illuminated by the breathing glow of the device. His touch gossamer touch sends chills down his back. "You have been touched by fate, Stark, for you should have left this world when you received this wound, yet, here you are. You still have a part to play."

Tony's eyes flick down to Loki's hand, back up to his face. His expression is nearly blank—but pain lingers there, along with acceptance, resentment, and a kind of terrifying glee. Tony doesn't recoil, finding that he does not feel the need to, and they stand there for a moment, close. "Yeah, but I had a choice." Tony explains gruffly, "Sure, the shrapnel should have killed me—but what I did with my so-called second chance was up to me. I could have turned my back on everything that I had seen. I chose this—so don't give me that destiny bullshit. Everything you've done has been your choice. You have a choice now, too."

Loki narrows his eyes. "I never claimed that my choices were not my own. I am no willing puppet to the Fates—yet, every choice I have made thus far has led me down the path Yggdrasi has set for me—Asgard's thorn, and Asgard's end. The All-father knows this."

"I'm still not buying it, Harry Potter. You don't have to do anything. You're not going back to your prison—not if Thor and I have anything to say about it. Hell, if Fury's offer still stands, we could get S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect you."

"Why should I try to stop it? Why should I not allow the prophecies to be fulfilled? Asgard and every pathetic citizen in it have betrayed me—cast me out at the command of their lying, pious king. I will bring about the end of the gods. I will have my revenge—a monster of their own making."

Tony grimaces, disgusted by the words. "You haven't learned anything, have you? The only person you're hurting with your lies—your actions—is yourself."

"What do you know of my motives—of my actions?" Loki hisses, removing his hand from the technology in Stark's chest. "You know nothing."

"You say that a lot. Change the record." Tony sucks in a breath, steeling himself. He knows that he is headed straight for dangerous waters, but Tony Stark would not be Tony Stark if he didn't take risks. "I know that you had the chance to murder Thor today, and that you didn't take it. I know that you saved my life. I know that you didn't plan on making it out alive when you fought Mr. Ax-happy, lumberjack on steroids."

Loki's indifferent mask twists into a snarl of rage and he shoves Tony away roughly, pushing against his chest. Tony knows that he's struck several nerves—especially in bring up Thor. But it had to mean something—a change in Loki that had stayed his hand when faced with the option of committing the act—something that he had been striving for. Whether or not Loki had spared Thor for sentimental reasons or for selfish reasons remains to be seen—but somehow Tony knows that he will never get an honest answer. He strides back over to the wall of computer screens and starts to type.

Tony blinks, taken aback, and forgets about the serious argument for a moment. "How'd you learn how to work the computers?" He snorts to himself, crossing his arms and leaning against the table.

He can hear a sly smile in Loki's voice, though he cannot see his face. "I am merely observant." Okay, so Loki had learned his tricks from studying him. Tony, try as he might, finds this more endearing and amusing than creepy. He watches as a picture appears on the screen—a painting. Tony is instantly reminded of the museum—of the melting paintings, and of the shattered stone that sits on the table behind him.

"It is said on Asgard," Loki laments, his tone oddly tender, "That the Norns, Urd, Skuld, and Veran, decide the fates of the gods. These beings, said to be older than the All-father himself, have visions of the future."

"I love story time. That's—" Tony pauses, searching for a word. "So a bunch of wrinkly old ladies read palms and crystal balls for the gods? That's a bit of a stretch for me, Macbeth." Despite his dismissal of all things 'magic,' Tony is curious enough to walk the length of the room and squint up at the screen. His face pales.

"You see, Stark, this grotesque depiction, like the stone, was forged by a mortal long before my exile came to be—long before the truth of my heritage was revealed to me, before my torment, before my conquest of Midgard. My fate has been sealed by the Norns, and by the All-father, for centuries." When Loki starts to laugh quietly, Tony nearly jumps, startled by the harsh and unnatural contrast between the horrible image and the manic sound. There is a man, splayed upon a rock, naked and chained under a serpent, venom dripping. "What say you now, Stark?"

Tony does not ponder his words, because if he thinks about any of what Loki has said, he might say the wrong thing. "I say I need a drink. I say we should party it up—celebrate that Amora is no longer on our asses, and then take a well-deserved nap." He claps his hands together.

"I have seen things—visions, cryptic flashes—during my banishment from Asgard when I fell between worlds and voids and space. I saw Asgard burning, melting. I saw only destruction. I was glad to see it burn."

Tony turns to the computer, tossing the image of the gruesome painting into the virtual trash bin, as if it was that easy to rid them of the problem. His fingers dart over the screen, type on the keyboard of strange, scientific symbols—a language that only he and JARVIS really knows. "Look—I've been doing some research on that you Asgardians call magic, and I think I can figure out a way to unblock the energy and restore your powers to you." He unconsciously sticks out his tongue as he fiddles with the computer, focused. "With your mojo back—well, you'll have your mojo back."

"Only the All-father can restore what was ripped from me."

Tony gives him a look, smirking. "Yeah, but I'm Tony Stark."


	12. Chapter 12

_The bowl feels too heavy in his hands. His splayed fingers twitch and tremble with the effort of keeping the container steady, trying not to slosh any of its contents. It is dark—the air thick and steaming with humidity—reeking of death and bile. Tony lets out a low, breathy groan of exhaustion, and slowly—carefully—lowers himself to his knees on the ground, feeling rough sediment and rock beneath him. He is terrified of tipping the bowl—though he is not sure why—not sure why it is so important—why everything seems to rest on his task._

_"It's okay—I got you, Buddy," Tony hears himself say—his voice oddly distant, muffled and underwater. "You're gonna be fine—" But the weight presses down on him and he can feel his shaking arms start to give way. With the sound of swinging chains comes a pale, skeletal hand that reaches out suddenly, weakly resting on his thigh—yet Tony feels no fear or surprise in the slightest. He feels comforted by the touch._

_He is old, Tony realizes, for he can see his own quivering hands that are wrinkled and spotted with age, and he can feel it—feel the weariness, the hunching slope of his back, and he knows that he has been in this place for a long time. He knows it is time to pour out the contents of the bowl, but before he can, it overflows._

_Rivers of liquid spill over the sides in streams that shriek and sizzle and bubble—a prelude to a horrible, rasping scream, and tremors that make the earth quake. "No," Tony shouts, desperately trying to move the bowl, to stop the torment—to stop the poor, wretched cries of agony, "No. I can save you—I can stop it—just hold on—" He chokes on a sob. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—oh, god—help—"_

_"It is all right, Stark…"_

_"No—I can help you—just—" No matter how hard he tries, Tony cannot stop the flow of poison—but even as the burning liquid runs down his fingers, searing through the tender flesh of his hands, down his wrists and arms and beyond, he does not let go. His flesh becomes ruin. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot stop it._

Tony sucks in a deep, gasping breath, eyes going wide as they strain in the dark. He jolts, nearly losing his balance on his computer chair and toppling to the floor. The only light comes from the arc reactor; he can see the ghostly outlines of sleek worktables, lab equipment—all too cold and sharp, an unpleasant contrast to the dazed state of Tony's mind. He feels vomit rise in his throat and he grips the counter, steeling himself.

"Remind me to stop falling asleep in the lab, JARVIS." Tony mutters, letting out a nervous chuckle.

_"Ms. Potts has programed me to remind you for years, Sir."_

"Why do I never listen?" Tony pauses, "Don't answer that—it was rhetorical."

He glances briefly at his computer's darkened screen. He had been filling out paperwork for Pepper, and then he had researched theoretical and untested methods of restoring energy, when he had decided on a whim to consult a search engine for information on Norse mythology. He doubts there is much truth to any of the epics and stories—not only from embellishment and miscommunication, but also from the changing of the artifacts with the spread of monotheistic religion.

He plans on questioning Loki about a few of the more interesting tales—one involving Thor dressing in drag, and the other involving a goat—for research, of course. There was also the tale of Ragnarok, the end of the gods—the death of Thor, Loki, and their entire people—caused by none other than Loki, when he escaped from his bonds. Tony had shivered at that—at the fact that Thor had freed him—but since nothing had happened, no death of Asgard—Tony figures that it disproves the whole thing.

Tony sighs, standing cautiously, and trudges slowly out of the room and into the hallway. The devastation of his dream hits him like a wave, crashing over his head, constricting his stomach. He almost allows himself to imagine that Pepper is waiting for him in the master bedroom, curled up, peaceful, waiting to comfort him. But Pepper is not there to rationalize hazy, blood red images and cries of pain, and so Tony only manages to pull the blanket off of the bed and collapse on the floor in a heap.

He curls up, turning on his side so that his back is to the doorway. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and as the number starts to dial, he half-considers hanging up. He feels like a paranoid idiot when a voice groggily mumbles in his ear. The light of the phone makes him recoil.

"Tony—what's the matter? Is something wrong?"

"Hey Pep—nope, everything's fine—just fine. How are you?"

"It's 3-o-clock in the morning, Tony."

"Oh, right."

"You fell asleep in the lab again, didn't you?"

"Possibly. Look—I'll call back at a better time—"

The urgency in Pepper's voice is tangible and sharp. "Tony—I need you to tell me if something's happened. Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay—I just—I don't know—" His fingers are trembling and he clutches the blankets in a firm hold. He takes deep, slow breaths. "Can you fly out tonight?"

"Tony—"

"You know what—never mind. I know you can't come out here—not while everything's still such a mess, and we don't even know if we're out of danger yet." He closes his eyes, trying to focus—to grasp a coherent thought in the dazed void of his mind. "I'm lucky—-really lucky to have you—"

"You're scaring me, Tony."

"Don't be—I just—I had a dream that I was somewhere else, and I'd given you and everything else up to save someone, and—" The words tumble from his lips, as if having been perched on his tongue for a long time, ready to be released. "Look—if I was in another dimension, and there was a snake pouring acid on my face, I know you'd be there with me—and not everyone has someone who would do that for them."

"Should I call an ambulance? Maybe you really did sustain a concussion from your fight with that insane sorceress—"

Tony actually smiles, amused by the motherly tone of Pepper's voice. "I'm not concussed, Pepper. Look—do you even know how weird Norse mythology is? I mean, it's really strange and kind of hilarious—I'll explain everything in the morning—"

"It is the morning, technically."

"I'll let you know when you can come to the tower—"

"As long a Loki's around, how can the tower be safe?"

That gives Tony pause. He stares at the phone and frowns. "He saved my life."

"I know, Tony—but there are people after him—people as dangerous as Amora. He's dangerous—"

"May I remind you that you're the one who hired Ms. Moran in the first place?" He teases lightly, a smirk splitting his face. "Terrible photographer, by the way."

"Goodnight, Tony."

Left once again alone and in the darkness, sleep does not take him. Tony does not know whether he is glad for this or not—half-scared that he might dream again. _Dreams don't mean anything_ , Tony reasons with himself, scathing of his own fear. _Right—and a few years ago aliens didn't exist, and a few nights ago you didn't believe in prophecies and fortunetellers._

"I don't—I still don't believe." Tony says aloud to the dark. He gets no reply—no reassurance. He snorts at himself, feeling ridiculous. "I hope Loki's crazy isn't contagious."

 _No. Dreams are just reflections of the subconscious mind._ Science—it's a fact, it's real and solid. Nothing to it—nothing behind it—no hidden meanings and weaving of threads by the Fates. No plagues and dreams of stacks of hay bowing to brothers—no dreams of Julius Caesar's statue stabbed and leaking blood—no prophetic, self-fulfilling vision from literature. Science—reason—logic can fix Loki's problem.

Guilt—a twisting knife in his gut—fills his chest, tight and breathtaking. The Tony in his dream had been old and dying—a man with nothing. No Pepper Potts—no company—no suit—no team. The Tony in his dream had given up his life to hold a bowl for someone who might not have deserved it. But I won't give up everything—I can find a way to save him without destroying everything. Helping Loki will not be the death of him. Tony won't let the bowl overflow—not if he can help it.

* * *

Thor sits cross-legged on the leather couch, the supple fabric creaking under his weight as he shifts into a more comfortable position. He is still in his nightclothes—plaid flannel bottoms and a plain cotton t-shirt—and his blonde hair is plastered to his forehead. He runs a hand over his face, fingers trailing over rough stubble and skin damp with a cold sweat—a chill he cannot shake. He stares straight ahead at the computer screen, watching with dull eyes as the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem flickers into view.

"Thor," Director Fury's greeting rings clear through the room, his scowling face appearing on the screen. Thor is too tired to marvel at the mortal technology, and he is used to it by now. Bruce had set up the chat with him in Stark Tower so that Thor did not have to make the long journey to headquarters for the debriefing and questioning. "I need you to tell me everything you know about this Enchantress, and her involvement with Loki."

Thor tenses only slightly, his gaze flicking to his hands that are folded in his lap. "She is a sorceress of Asgard, trained in the art of magic by the Norn Queen, Karnilla, and sent to Midgard by Odin All-father to claim Loki and return him to his prison." He states the words firmly, deliberately—each word mulled over in his mind beforehand—a practice he is not used to—as if afraid of what he might say. "But Loki never—"

"And the stone?"

"The stone possesses no power." Thor swallows, looking up to meet the hollow eye that watches him carefully through the screen. "Loki merely used it to gain her trust, in order to trick her into imprisonment. Under the guise of causing me harm, she convinced Loki to help her obtain power from ancient relics and magicks, when she truly only desired his capture."

There is a pause. Thor can see Natasha Romanoff sitting a few chairs down from Fury, expression blank. "Do you know where Enchantress is now? We have her bodyguard in custody, but he's not saying a whole lot and doesn't seem to know where she is."

"I do not know. I can only assume she has returned to Asgard."

"Is there anyway you could get Loki to tell you where she is? If they worked together at some point, he might know where she's hiding."

"Loki is under the protection of the Avengers only. When Stark forfeited information to you in exchange for Loki, you agreed that he would not be called into S.H.I.E.L.D. again." Thor has not forgotten how they had treated him—strapped him down, interrogated him, and did not even bother to treat the wounds he had sustained.

Fury holds up his hands as if surrendering. "Nobody said anything about taking him in yet. Your brother has very dangerous enemies, Thor—it might be in his best interest to allow us to provide him with protection."

"I find it difficult to believe that your organization cares for Loki's wellbeing."

"We care about the planet's wellbeing, and if Loki cooperating with us to catch a crazed criminal accomplishes that, then we can put aside old grudges for a while to get it done. Just think about it." With that, Fury stands to his feet, one hand pressed to his earpiece, and exits the room. Thor clenches his fists, closing his eyes.

"Has Loki said anything to you about the incident yet?" Natasha's voice startles Thor out of his reverie, and he turns back to the computer. "Fury wanted to send agents to the tower to bring him in by force. I convinced him otherwise."

"I thank you for that, truly—" Thor moistens his dry lips, "I am afraid I have not seen him in days. He has avoided me. Perhaps Fury should have called Stark in instead—for it seems that he has seen more of Loki recently than I have."

He remembers Loki's agonized face peering down at him, dagger in hand—how he had faltered and struggled—waging some eternal war that Thor could not begin to understand. He thinks of the last time he had seen Loki, just after they got off the helicarrier. That man had bared a subtle resemblance to the brother he had lost long ago—as shattered now as he was. He had been exhausted and broken, but his eyes had lit up with recognition and contemplation—not the eyes of a madman, but of someone returning to themselves. That had kindled his hope.

Natasha's eyebrows raise and she leans forward across the table, but she does not mention Thor's surprisingly bitter comment about Stark. "Fury's worried. He has the Executioner—an Asgardian—in a containment cell, and he's offering sanctuary to a wanted war criminal with a price on his head. S.H.I.E.L.D. is running out of options." She frowns, brushing a stray strand of fiery hair from her face. "Do you think your people will take this as a invitation to go to war?"

"No," Thor shakes his head slowly, running a thumb over his beard, "But I fear that the All-father will send more warriors after Loki."

"Your brother sure knows how to cause trouble."

"Indeed."

Natasha glances away from the screen, folding her hands on the table. "I know this is difficult to hear, but you have to consider that it would be best for everyone involved if you take Loki back to his own realm. Keeping him on Earth is a risk that we cannot afford to take—not if your people continue to send bounty hunters after him."

"I will not." Thor tries to keep his tone calm and firm, but anger builds and bubbles in his chest, suffocating. "I will not betray him—not after he has saved my life. I did not betray my father and his laws to deliver Loki only to condemn him again."

Natasha nods slowly. "Understood."

"Stark informed me that it was you who told the agents to stand down. May I ask why you made the call spare Loki's life?"

Natasha rests her chin on her clasped hands, green eyes flicking up lazily to the screen. "It's in my job description to analyze and assess any given situation, and I always have to be prepared to make a difficult call. Believe it or not, it was agent Barton who convinced me not to order an assault."

The screen cuts out abruptly, leaving Thor in silence, the questions and implications still lingering in the air around him, unanswered. He looks up at the ceiling to address Stark's AI system. "Locate my brother."

* * *

Loki has hidden himself away in his chambers—though he usually prefers to find refuge and solitude in the more open, windowed areas of Stark's modern palace, and tends to be found anywhere but his supposed prison out of spite—for he knows that no one will find him here. His room is the last place anyone will look for him—if anyone did intend to look.

He knows he is a captive in every sense but in the name—for while Stark and his team allows him to roam at his leisure, and though Stark claims that he is free to leave whenever he desires, Loki knows that even if he were to leave, and if they noticed his absence, that he would be quickly recaptured. S.H.I.E.L.D. would track him down and drag him back into their custody like hunted game, a prize. It is a different prison—but a prison just the same.

The room is not unpleasant. There is a decently sized bed, along with a leather armchair and divan, and a skylight—compliments of Stark, who had insisted on moving him to an actual room, rather than the crude, bare room that had been intended to cage the Hulk. He smiles to himself in the darkness, amused by how both uncertain and certain his future is at the same time—for he cannot return to Asgard—lest he decide to do so himself—without facing the All-father's wrath, and he cannot—will not—stay on Midgard. But there is no realm that will welcome him now—no hearth fire to warm him. But Loki is a creature of shape changing and adapting—and he knows that he must twist himself and use his cunning to survive.

Loki finds himself smiling when he thinks of Stark, and how he plans to restore his sorcery to him. It is not a bad plan—should he find a way to do so—for once he has his powers back, Loki can hide himself from Heimdall and any warriors the All-father should send to fetch him. Once he has his powers, he need no longer stay on Midgard. Stark is a fascinating mortal—brilliant and rash—but he is a fool if he thinks that he can trust Loki, or that Loki can trust him.

Loki strides to the bookcase with lithe steps, hand outstretched, and he trails his fingers over the few textbooks and novels that sit in a neat stack on the shelf. He picks one absently, not truly caring, and retires to the chair.  _Titus Andronicus_ , the title reads in gold-gilded scrawl. The book is old, a thin layer of dust just visible on the fraying spine, but he can tell that it has only been opened once or twice in its life. He despises most of the mortal tomes—their knowledge—it is all as worthless and dim as they are.

He sits a reads for a while, slender fingers underlining the words of dialogue, eyes scanning pages of battles for thrones—of sacrificing enemies and of harsh vengeance—of wicked plots and the favoring of country over loved ones—of poison and masks and violence. He slams the book shut when he hears footsteps outside of his door. He unties the fetters of his limited sorcery and cloaks himself in shadow, unseen. He will not speak to anyone unless it is his will and under his conditions.

"Loki?" The metal door slides open and Loki can see a silhouette made of bulk and the lumbering figure it belongs to. Thor. "Brother?"

Loki sneers to himself, remaining hidden from sight. It would be  _Thor_ who would come looking for him first—to speak with him—to babble idiotically—to try and make sense of his actions. Loki is not entirely sure he knows himself what his actions were, and to what end. He wills Thor away with his mind, breath coming in short, sharp gasps of rage _. Why should I be the one to cower in darkness? Why should I not allow that oaf to address me? I have nothing to fear—I have nothing to hide._

"Stark's computer informed me that you were to be found here." Thor takes a step into the room like a fool, the light casting harsh lines on his face, distorting him into a monster-like being. "I wish to have words with you."

Loki scowls. He does not like being outsmarted by mortal technology. He removes the veil of energy from around him. "How astonishingly clever of you," his tone is bitingly sarcastic and disinterested, "though I highly doubt the idea was born of your simple mind." He exhales in a cold smile, eyes narrowing as they fix on Thor.

Thor's fists clench—but it is not a gesture of anger. "May I sit?" He motions to the divan, brow creasing. He sits down anyway before receiving an answer and Loki's chest tightens.

"What would you like to discuss? Something of a scholarly and intelligent nature, I'm sure."

"Loki, you have avoided me long enough—"

"Not quite—"

"You may dance around the subject all you like but the fact remains, Brother, is that you saved my life when faced with Amora's challenge. I would know why."

" _Spared_  your life. There is a difference—"

"How is there any difference?"

Loki holds up an index finger, eyes burning. "In sparing a life, one has power over it and its fate.  _Saving_  suggests weakness."

"Why show me mercy when you claim no kinship to me? Why spare me now, after every attempt to take my life before?" Thor pleads for answers, for a confession of brotherhood and love and other long-forgotten trifles. He is pathetic—but Loki finds it difficult to enjoy—the sight of Thor begging for confirmation. "I saw a change in you."

"You mistake my hesitancy for sentiment." Loki straightens and leans forward in his chair, hands gripping the armrests and back ramrod—body tense. "There would have been no glory in slaying you while you were bound by Amora's magic—helpless. If I am to kill you, it should be by my own hand—by my own sorcery and power. When I defeat you, it will be because I have bested the Mighty Thor, even with all of his strength and power to aid him."

His words feel rehearsed. The silence that follows is thick—sweet relief to Loki's ears, yet also haunting and too quiet—the quiet of a realm where no screams can be heard. Loki laughs to fill the soundless void—a laugh that steals all of his breath from him. Thor remains silent and Loki can feel the rising tension like a vice around his throat until he cannot take it anymore.

_It really is simple, Thor. I had a chance to kill you—I did not take it._

Loki had searched for something in Thor's eyes in that moment—something akin to rage and hatred—the loathing he had seen in the eyes of Asgard's people—of his once-friends. There had been nothing in Thor's eyes but pity—no, not pity—a kind of love, acceptance and resignation.

 _"If this is what you need—"_  That is what he had said to him—no accusation of treachery—no knowing look that said his nature and blood were truly made of the same material of Jotun monsters. Loki despises him for that.

For one fraction of a moment—as quick and fleeting as a mortal's time on earth—he had doubted himself. He had feared what would happen if he plunged the dagger home—if he had accepted Amora's foolish challenge. He can only recall vague, bright red flashes of agony, and words said without thinking, when Thor had come to him in the cursed place where the serpent preformed its grim task. He remembers a gentle touch—cradling arms—and then hazy, quicksilver flickers of relief and comfort, so strange after all of the years of pain that it had sent his entire body reeling from the sensation.

Loki reaches up and lightly runs his fingers over the smooth, unblemished skin on his face and neck, then to his hair. His locks have grown since Thor had been forced to raggedly cut the hopelessly bloody and matted tangles from his scalp. His skin had knitted together gradually, nearly erasing all of the scars and remnants of torture, as if nothing had happened. But his mind has not fully repaired itself yet.

In the dazed, delirious state he had been in the crawling hours, days, and weeks after his rescue, Thor had not been Thor to him. He hadn't been able to put a name or meaning or memory fragments to the face, to the hands that cleaned his wounds and clasped his hand. No grudges or resentment. He had welcomed the tenderness then—unaware of himself and who he was—what he was. There had been a kind of peace in that. And so, in that moment when he held the dagger above Thor's chest, he had almost been scared of losing that.

 _Pathetic_. His mind hisses at him.  _Childish—base—cowardly._

"Consider my debt to you repaid. You will no longer hold your act of grace over me."

Thor scoffs, indignant and disbelieving. "You have told me time and again of how you find my freeing you to have been out of arrogance and a need for praise—" his voice rises, but he stops himself short of shouting. "Look around you—do you see me victorious? Have I gained anything from saving you, Loki? I have disobeyed the All-father and the laws of our realm to free you—and you have done nothing but loathe me for it."

"Ah, so you saved me out of the  _goodness_  of your heart, yet expect something in return?" Loki mouth twitches into a disturbing imitation of a smile. He may have failed to slay Thor with the weapon—but he will mold and form his words into daggers that will cause a pain more potent than the physical. "You have never been adept at lying, Brother. There was no thought of my will or welfare in your actions—you saved me to ease your guilt—you saved me only because you would rather have me alive and suffering for it, than to live without me and give me peace."

"That is not true." Thor shakes his head, features twisting into an agonized mask. "You continue to repeat your bitter words, over and over again. It is not me you are trying to convince. Others may call you the God of Lies for your falsehoods—but you lie to yourself more than anyone."

Loki rolls his eyes, fighting a growl that threatens to escape his throat. "Why then—why did you save me, Thor? Why didn't you just let me die as I requested, or leave me to be punished for my crimes?"

"Loki—I—we loved each other once, did we not? We grew up together. You are my brother—and I would not wish that kind of torment on the most foul of enemies." Loki can tell from the way Thor winces that even he knows he has given too much away—he has given Loki an admission of emotion to tear to shreds.

Loki laughs again. He stands to his feet swiftly, clasping his hands together behind his back, and begins to pace around the room. "Are you not going to question me about Amora's whereabouts?"

"I know you will not tell me anything unless it suits you."

Loki chuckles at that. "Indeed." He spins on his heel, offering Thor a smile. "Stark seems to think that the best course of action to take would be to restore my full power to me. He's very reckless, yes?" There is a kind of affection in his voice when he brings up Stark.

"He has not mentioned this to me." Thor's brow wrinkles, his eyes narrowing doubtfully.

Loki feigns a scandalized expression. "Oh, dear—that's not very team-like behavior, is it?"

"Do not try to sow seeds of distrust—"

"I don't have to."

Thor grunts in annoyance, fists clenching and unclenching. "And what is  _your_  plan? What would you have me do?" He leans forward in his chair so that he is face-to-face with Loki, elbows resting on his thighs.

"Now, it wouldn't be any fun if I told you, would it?"

* * *

"You look like crap."

Tony snorts, shooting Clint an agitated look. "Yeah, well—you're not exactly Prince Charming in the mornings either, bird boy." He trudges past the wet bar and over to the coffee machine, presses several buttons, and stifles a yawn with the inside of his wrist. He's still wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, having not bothered to change before he fell asleep, and his hair is disheveled past the point of stylishly messy. Tony had pretended not to notice the dark circles that lingered under his eyes when he looked in the mirror earlier—as if the nightmare had worked its way under his skin.

It is always a kind of surprise each day—to see which Avengers would be in the building, and which were off on their own missions and living their own lives outside of the team. Steve is still on a super secret quest in who-knows-where, while Natasha is at S.H.I.E.L.D., and Bruce is being the usual recluse. Whenever Clint is at the tower, however, Stark hardly ever sees him unless he ventures to the gym to box, or runs into him in the kitchen, like now.

Clint shrugs and walks over to the mini fridge, crouching to grab the carton of orange juice. He grimaces, shaking the empty jug expectantly, as if hoping that it will refill itself. "Damn."

Tony smirks to himself. "Who would have thought that living with a bunch of misfit superheroes would be so similar to college? Always out of groceries." He turns back to the coffee, practically giddy as the machine beeps and starts to fill his mug to the brim with much-needed caffeine. He gingerly sips the hot beverage, foam settling on his beard, before reaching for another mug from the glass shelf. He smiles, unscrews the saltshaker, and pours handful into the empty cup.

Clint straightens up, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm?" Tony twists his neck to look at Clint, expression sly.

Clint gestures to the coffee cup. "You know that's salt, right?" His mouth tugs downward in a gaze of genuine concern, and Tony almost laughs.

"You see, Loki and I have this unspoken prank war going on—well, it's a little one sided, because he hasn't exactly retaliated yet, but—" Tony presses the espresso button, watching as the machine sprays hot liquid into the mug of salt, "I'm going up against the supposed God of Mischief here, so I must say I'm a bit disappointed. More like the God of Angst, am I right?" Tony can practically feel the disapproval radiating off of the agent, but he ignores it.

"For a genius, you're pretty stupid."

"You wouldn't believe how many times I've had that said about me."

"So you two are all buddy-buddy now, huh? That's nice, really—fraternizing with the enemy."

Tony's shoulders stiffen. "That's a little hypocritical of you, don't you think?" He bites his lip, feeling a pang of regret at the mention of Natasha—but he is getting tired of trying to explain himself and his actions to people who refuse to understand.  _I have to help him—I have to._

"That's different."

"How, exactly? You know—other than the obvious differences—" Tony taps his fingers on the counter with increasing speed, his heart racing as the dream returns to him—with the injustice of it all. "What makes you think you get to decide who deserves a second chance and who doesn't? Why do you get to make that call?"

Clint snatches a water bottle from the fridge, expression frustratingly blank and composed. "He told me himself that he doesn't feel an ounce of regret—he doesn't feel anything, Stark. He would do it all over again, no hesitation."

"Yeah, well—he is called the God of Lies for a reason."

Clint smiles humorlessly before exiting the room. "I wonder which one of us he's lying to."

* * *

Once Tony had left the kitchen area, mugs of coffee in hand, he had wandered around fruitlessly in search of the resident villain, only to find him in his assigned room—the last place Tony would have thought to look for him. By that point, the coffee was disgustingly cold and Tony was very put out about the whole thing, until Loki offered to heat it with a little sorcery.

"There was a figure—a woman?" Tony runs a thumb over his lips absently, brushing stubble, and narrows his eyes. He sits down on the sofa, takes a gulp from his mug.

Loki does not bother to hide his blatant irritation and confusion at the comment. "What absurdity are you talking about?"

Tony sits up straighter, though he finds himself too stiff and exhausted to shift from his sprawled position on the couch. The supple leather crinkles softly under his weight as he moves. "In the painting you showed me," he replies with an impatient wave of his hand, "There was a figure—she was holding something above you—to catch the acid?" Tony—though he has never been one to posses any tact—brings up the subject gingerly.

Loki's pale eyes flash with slight recognition, his mouth tugging at amusement. "Ah, yes—that." He pauses, exhaling softly, and glances around the room. The room is smaller than most in the living floors of Stark Tower, but Tony rather likes how the refurbishment is coming along. There is a wall of windows that looks out over the city—now covered and darkened by curtains. Although the threat of Amora has been momentarily eliminated, Loki still keeps the windows blocked—as if he is still seeing ravens where ravens are not there. Tony almost wishes that the room were intended as another study for him—-rather than a place of sleeping for Loki. Almost. He has to call it a 'holding cell' in front of the other members of the team, besides Thor, or face the risk of angry glares.

"The All-father's final mercy." Bitterness drips from Loki's words—as corrosive and damaging as venom—but also frightening loathing and twisted mirth. His eyes glaze over slightly and he remains silent for a moment—tense, though his entire body seems to quiver. "He allowed anyone who was willing to catch the venom in a bowl to shield me from most of the damage, at the price of their life spent in that cursed place with me." He stares at the wall, silent.

"Loki—" Tony teases lightly, "Hello? You still with me, Buddy?" His stomach constricts with—with what? He recognizes the feeling, but refuses to name it. "Who was she—or he?"

Loki's gaze flicks to Tony, too alert, his fists clenching. "There was no one." He laughs, as if what he has said is humorous. "Alas, no one volunteered—as I'm sure Odin suspected—only my—" He halts, frowning, "Only Lady Frigga."

Tony does not know why his heart feels a kind of relief at the answer, but he is quick to push back the sudden guilt as this revelation. His eyes go wide and he sits up with a jolt. He chuckles, clapping his hands together. "That's it—that's your safety bar—your crutch—"

Loki's expression of bewilderment is almost comical. "I do hate it when you do this, Stark—"

"Don't you get it? The Fates—the old hags—they were wrong. They got it wrong. No more double, double, toil and trouble—"

Loki folds his arms across his chest and strides around the room. He tilts his head back to look up at the skylight. "The Fates do tend to speak in riddles, Stark. Perhaps the mortal misunderstood their prophecy—as mortals often do."

Tony instantly deflates, shoulders sagging. "Nope," he shakes his head stubbornly, "No way, Grumpy—you're not dissing my theory. If they were wrong about this—about someone being there to hold the bowl, then—"

"Why are you so desperate to find an error?" Loki's tone is condescending.

"Why are you so desperate to accept your so-called fate?" Tony counters. "You wanna know what I think?"

"I suspect you shall inform me regardless—"

"I think you're scared."

"Of what, exactly?" Loki advances on him, but Tony does not even flinch.

"You're scared of not having a damn convenient excuse—a scapegoat for your actions—for the horrific things you've done." You're scared of not having a purpose. Tony does not voice this final thought, for whatever reason.  _Too personal? Too close to home, Tony?_

Loki's jade eyes burn, but he does not retort immediately. "Even if your doubtful theory is correct, it would change nothing. Nothing can reverse the past—the lies, the betrayal I have felt. You are no different from Thor if you truly hold the belief that I wish to return to the dark illusion I knew before my fall."

Tony sighs. "Yeah, yeah—I get it. You have your whole brooding prince persona to maintain—whatever." He lets his head fall back against one of the pillows, frowning up at the ceiling. "I did a little research about you last night—well, tales written by mortals, that is."

Loki's smile is tight. "Did you find them informative?"

Tony grins to himself, licks his lips. "Tell me—and be honest—did you really convince Thor to disguise himself as a bride to get his hammer back?"

Tony nearly spills his hot coffee in his lap when he hears Loki laugh—a real laugh—not like the forced, bitter sounds that usually pass his lips in fits of mania. "That particular story—fortunately—is very close to the truth."

"And what about the other stories?"

Loki's expression of mirth gradually fades, but there is still slyness in his voice. "Stories are usually told by the victors—the champions and the beloved heroes—and generally slant in their favor."

"So in every myth, when you come in and royally screw everyone over—that's not how it really happened?"

"That's not entirely false—but they seem to glance over the part where I sacrifice myself again and again for Asgard and her people, only to be resented for it and called a deceiver for my trouble."

Tony cringes, deciding that Loki's past was not the best subject to bring up in casual conversation. "You'd be surprised by how many times the press has taken a photo or a quote out of context to use against me." He pauses, hiding a smirk. "Why aren't you drinking your coffee? Are our mortal beverages not good enough for you?"

Loki eyes him suspiciously and Tony swears under his breath, but he reaches for the mug anyway. "Next time you decide to research, try to find anything you are able to on the Norn Stones."

"Okay—that was cryptic. Sure thing." Loki takes a sip of his coffee and Tony has to put on his best poker face—reserved for the most intense moments of gambling—and tries not to giggle like a child.

Loki locks eyes with Tony over the rim of the cup, jade eyes vibrant with something akin to mischief. He makes a sound of contentment, setting the cup on the table beside the couch, "Not bad. A bit sweet, though."

Tony stares, mouth agape. "What—"

"You'll have to try harder than that, Stark."

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

Tony Stark has rubble on his shirt, under his nails. The dust is not from a collapsed building or construction, but pieces of rock—pieces of history and complications and myth. The Snaptun stone sits on the stainless steel worktable in front of him, shattered almost beyond repair. He sighs, wipes his hands on his jeans. The dust settles on his clothes, in his lungs—as persistent and inescapable as its likeness.

"JARVIS, start the scan now, please,"

A soft, mechanical whirring fills the room, and a wall of blue light washes over the artifact, creating a detailed three-dimensional image on the holographic screen of the computer. Tony cannot help but smile as he watches the computer piece the stone back together, a perfect model to use as reference. "Now, where did Pepper hide my Krazy glue?" Tony jokes to the air, pleased with himself.

This— _this_  is something he can fix—something he can mend with his technology. The stone is broken in a physical way—inanimate—not like Loki, whose vices are something intangible and mental and locked behind a wall of delusion. Wounds invisible—acid-worn skin having knit itself back together—a body unable to die—leaving unscarred flesh and a shattered mind and soul behind.

Tony's lips tug at a smirk when he feels the familiar, not un-wanted sensation of being watched. His shoulders slump and he traces a finger through the thin, shining layer of dust. He hasn't seen Loki since their little coffee break a day ago. "Hey, Baby," Tony greets the unseen figure, tone gleeful, "I was wondering when you'd decide to skulk in here. You know, I'm starting to calculate a pattern, and I can pretty much predict the exact hour you'll show up—"

"I do not believe you are aware to whom you are speaking."

 _Well, damn._ Tony swivels around in his chair to face Thor, whose disapproving scowl should be enough to make him cower and try to explain that cutesy nicknames mean nothing, but Tony just waggles his fingers in a wave. "That was awkward, " Tony acknowledges. "So, what brings the Thunder God to my humble workshop today—good news, I'm sure."  _Please. Good news—Just this once._

There is a strange, gut-twisting, slow motion horror in the way Thor's expression flickers and fall and shifts into something plagued with grief. "I have been summoned to Asgard," his tone is firm, unwavering, blue eyes hard with something akin to hopeful determination and resignation. Tony thinks that this is what his people must see when he asks them to fight by his side in battle—and  _yes_ , Tony thinks, he would follow him. "The All-father has arranged for his royal guards to retrieve me with the repaired Bifrost."

Tony's smile is forced, bitter, as he recognizes the sinking feeling of everything slipping through his fingers—the bowl slipping through his fingers. "Nothing quite like visiting Mom and Pop after living on your own for a while, right?"

_This is bad. This is really bad._

At Thor's confused expression, Tony exhales sharply. "This  _is_ bad, isn't it?"

"I am not so sure," Thor replies, brows knitting together. "The royal guard spoke nothing of Loki, only of the return of Skurge, who is still in S.H.I.E.L.D custody."

"Have you talked to Loki about this?" Something tells Tony that he already knows the answer. "Look," Tony says, hands held up in surrender, "maybe we should just sit Loki down and tell him this, see what he thinks—though I don't think you were planning on telling him—"

Thor's eyes narrow, and he folds his massive arms across his chest. "I will do what I see fit, Stark."

Tony laughs humorlessly. "Hey, buddy, you came to me—"

"I came only to inform you of my departure, to not seek your counsel."

"Right. Got it." Tony flexes his hands, eyes focusing on the floor. "So, what? You want me to babysit Loki while you're gone—is that it?"

"It would be wise to keep an eye on him."

"If you see your brother before you storm off to Asgard like an idiot, tell him I've been looking for him. Okay, sunshine?"

Thor is no longer looking at Tony, but at the mini laptop that sits on the desk by Tony's elbow. Confused, Tony follows his gaze to search engine results on the screen—a list of scientific articles and theories.

"This technology," Thor murmurs, expression darkening, "why does it contain an image of the ancient Norn stones?"

"The usual." Tony rubs the back of his neck absently, twisting back to face his desk. "Loki cryptically suggested that I research these magic rocks for him, so—"

Without another word, Thor abruptly turns and strides determinedly out of the sliding metal door. Tony sighs, seriously debating on whether or not to follow after the Thunder God and make sure he doesn't throw his brother out the window. Tony gets the distinct feeling that he has been played once again by the God of Mischief, because he hasn't seen Thor look that pissed in a while.

"Might as well," Tony mutters to himself, jumping to his feet.

Tony chases Thor's shadow down hallways and corridors, past empty rooms and living courters. But when Tony catches up to Thor outside of Loki's room, and when the door is opened, only darkness stares back at them. The room is empty—no brooding Norse God in sight.

Urged into action by Thor's angered growl, Tony quickly addresses the ceiling.

"JARVIS, please locate our resident angsty Prince, thanks."

_"Scanning the building now, Sir."_

Tony turns to Thor, whose fingers are twitching for Mjolnir, and offers him a reassuring nod. "He's probably just hiding somewhere where he can brood in private," Tony jests lightly.

_"Loki's heat signature was not located in the tower. Shall I inform S.H.I.E.L.D.?"_

"That can't be right," Tony exclaims.

"Your technology has made an error?"

"I guess it's possible," Tony mutters.  _JARVIS is never wrong. That's impossible._

* * *

"So," the woman, whose shining metal nametag reads, "Lydia," inquires, "you're our new curator?"

"Indeed, I am." Loki bares his teeth in a smile that borders on predatory more than friendly. He towers over the short, stocky blonde woman who leads him through the museum. His footsteps echo sharply against the marble floors, bouncing off of the high ceilings with as much resonance as that of a cathedral. He tilts his head back as he walks, gazing up at the intricate molding and the massive stone columns, feeling a strange familiarity with the architecture that is almost reminiscent of Asgard.

"Well, I've heard good things about you, and your impressive resume from the head curator, Mr. uh…" she trails off, craning her neck to peer at the front of his black button-down shirt, where his nametag should be.

"Luka." He grins down at her, jade eyes flashing, and she smiles back, looks away.

"Right. I knew that."

Lydia guides Loki past rows of glass displays that hold ancient Viking relics, rusted swords and armor. The museum is closed—too quiet and empty and calm for Loki's liking. He is tempted— tempted to melt the paintings and smash the artifacts that do not belong in the hands of mortals—to mold the building to match the chaos of his mind. He smirks at the thought of it—of sweet, mortal Lydia, being so completely unaware of who she is addressing. Would she cower if she knew, or would she kneel in her awe?

"You're an expert in Anglo Saxon relics, correct?"

"Yes."

"So, Luka," Lydia says as she opens the door to the archive, "what made you decide to follow that particular path? Are you a mythology buff or something?"

"I suppose you could say that I felt drawn to the subject—fated, if you will." Loki laughs at his own ridiculous joke—sharp laughter that shatters the silence of the collection room.

Loki glances around the room, taking in the stark white walls, the bright lights above him, and the littering of artifacts that line the shelves and the tables. Loki thinks of how pompous—how utterly disrespectful the mortals are—how they catalog and file and lock away relics stolen from the Gods—how they try to understand with their feeble minds the grandeur of worlds they have never known. He must not become distracted, though, for he is looking for one relic only.

He turns to Lydia, who stares at him expectantly, arms crossed over her chest. "If you'll leave me for a moment, dear Lydia, I'd prefer to examine the artifacts alone."

For a few seconds, Loki considers that he might have to waste his sorcery on Lydia to persuade her to leave, like he had done to get the job in the first place, but she merely nods curtly and leaves him to survey the room in peace. He watches her as she exits.

Loki opens drawers and containers, tossing items aside carelessly, searching for something.  _Amora swore that the amulet was here_. Then again, Loki reasons with himself, Amora has tricked him before. Loki still does not trust her, ready to turn on her in an instant, but Loki knows that he can use her to gain his power back. He had been sitting in his room in Stark Tower when she had appeared to him using her psychic link.

_When Loki hears the laughter in the hollow, dark corners of his mind, he fears for a flicker of a moment that he will return to his torment. Sometimes he has uncontrollable flashes of memories—bright, hazy flashes of pain and venom and of ear piercing screams—and all he can do is wade through the symptoms and hope they will pass. But the laugher is not his own, and it is not born of his damaged mind. The laugher belongs to Amora._

_He recalls the psychic link she and Skurge had with him when he was in Fury's custody, and he pieces the puzzle together._

_Loki sits on the floor of his room—his makeshift prison—and crosses his legs, closing his eyes. "My dear Amora," Loki hisses to the air between clenched teeth, "warning your enemy is not a very wise move."_

_"The All-father has cast me out—banished me for my failures in capturing you. I am not calling upon you to attack, but to ask for your help."_

_Pause. "In what realm do you reside now?"_

_"Nornheim, home of Karnilla. I was banished immediately."_

_Loki chokes on his own laughter, harsh and gleeful, at Amora's misery. "I cannot say I am surprised. The All-father is all too quick to disown those who fail to meet his expectations."_

_"I wish to call a truce—"_

_"And why would I do that, Amora, after you deceived me?"_

_"Joining me will save your skin, Loki, and I know that is the one thing in all the realms that you care about."_

_Loki chuckles again, clenching his fists tight enough for his nails to draw blood. "You know nothing of Loki."_

_"Oh, yes, you spared the Thunderer—but I expect that, too, was for your benefit only, and not out of caring."_

_"You are not succeeding in gaining my favor, Amora."_

_"But you will ally yourself with me, Trickster," Amora's voice is suddenly soft, faint and sensual, and Loki finds himself leaning forward, as if to hear her more clearly. "You will join me, because I have informed the All-father as to your whereabouts, and he will send thousands of warriors after you. He will do whatever it takes, Loki, to drag you to Asgard. You don't have much time left, and you cannot hide with your precious mortal for much longer."_

_Loki snarls under his breath, mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions, all begging for precedence. "And how exactly would you be helping me?"_

_"I was not merely collecting artifacts of power like the Casket to capture you—I needed protection, should things go awry. I know of more artifacts—items of sorcery scattered on Midgard by the Norns—that could aid you in your quest for power."_

_"To what end?" The corners of Loki's mouth tug at a half smile—a twitching, mockery of mirth. "If my fate is so sealed, as you say it is, then why should I try to regain my power? It is useless."_

_"Revenge is an end. You can at least make Asgard bow to you before you succumb to your fate."_

_Loki smiles. "After Thor saved me from my torment—after he forgave me of my wrongdoings? I am tired, and I have not the strength for revenge."_

_"What has happened to the Sly One that has made him so weak?" Loki can taste and feel and sense the pity, the disappointment in her voice. "Loki is the God of Mischief, the Bringer of Ragnarok, and the Sky Treader, not this pathetic, sentimental child. After all that has been done to you at the hands of those you trusted—after the torture the All-father has inflicted on you—and you do not crave revenge?" Loki can hear amusement in her voice. "That mortal, Stark, has made a pet out of you. You will need to cut ties with him if you want your vengeance—break his trust in you."_

_"What would you have me do? It was you who wanted me to stay my hand when I poised my dagger over Thor's heart. What would you gain from my war?"_

_"After you use the artifacts to unbind your sorcery, and after you unleash your wrath on Asgard and take your rightful place on the throne, I will have a place of power in the kingdom, my banishment revoked."_

_"And of Thor?"_

_"Thor will be sparred—Thor will be mine."_

_Loki snorts. "Oh, I hardly think I can satisfy my lust for blood and justice without punishing Thor, the bringer of my pain." His words are rife with bitter sarcasm—not even sure himself if he means what he says._

_"You spared him once, so do it again."_

_"I said nothing of killing him—"_

_"But you will make a deal with me?"_

_Loki opens his eyes, stares hard at the wall in front of him. "No, I will not." He laughs sharply, features twisting. "And for that—for your betrayal and trickery—you will suffer a full life in banishment and disgrace," Loki growls out the words, not caring that he is shouting at air and whispered words, "without a home—living with your pathetic, childish delusions of love that will never be returned in a thousand years. How does that feel—knowing that this will be your fate?"_

_"You know this best of all, Sly One."_

_Loki's hands meet his ears with a hard slap, as if to shut her out, to block her words, and he summons every last vestige of his magicks left to forcibly thrust Amora from his mind, shattering their psychic link for the time being. He flexes his fingers, watching with dull eyes as his fingernails tinge black, as blue creeps up his skin._

_With a cry, Loki slams his fists against the floor, rage tearing through him like a viper, twisting his gut and stripping his throat raw. His head throbs and his heart pounds in his ears. He knows he cannot live like this—live in shadows, hiding in Stark's palace like a cowering infant—for much longer. He will go mad if he has to live in this state forever—chaos itself bound and living with mortals._

There must be some way to regain my power without Amora's aid _. The Norn stones had the power to do so, yes, but only as a last resort, and he has no idea where in all of the nine realms they reside. He could use the artifacts to locate the stones, however. Loki ponders Amora's words and, in the darkness of the room, he can almost see the cave in which Odin had him bound, and he can almost smell the metallic stench of death and blood, and he can almost hear his own desperate cries echoing, unheard._

_And he can almost see Thor—how he looked at him for the last time before Loki was escorted to his punishment—how he had looked away with shame from this mad creature that had once been a mock brother to him. Thor had looked away. It was only after a year of torment that Thor had decided to visit him—to play the part of the righteous savior and show mercy on him—to save him. But it was too late by that point. Thor was too late._

_To make Odin suffer, Loki thinks, would be grand indeed._

_These memories—memories of the venom dripping—and of falling through the void at the breaking of the Bifrost—will have to fuel his revenge alone. A God, being able to live for thousands of years, can only remember so much for so long. The pain—the thousands of years of pain and screams that he lived in the span two mortal years on Midgard—has replaced most of his old, childhood memories of belittlement and not belonging. And so, he must draw from what little feelings of resentment and jealousy remain, and of his torment, if he wants to strive for revenge._

_But Loki also remembers the tender, gentle hands that cleaned his wounds and bathed him and clothed him. He remembers words of forgiveness and apology and pleading from Thor's lips. Those memories, as warped by agony as they are, can still be seen through the fog of his rage. He can see Stark's face too—can see him freeing him from Fury's clutches, grasping his Jotun tainted skin without fear or hesitation._

_He realizes that, although he resents Thor for saving him, that he would rather die than return to his Hel. He will need his power if he wishes the fight on—to live to cause more mischief and hide away and travel to new worlds. But Loki is a creature of shape shifting and change and unpredictability._

_Loki focuses, his mind temporarily made up, and attempts to cull Amora to him. "I accept your offer, Enchantress."_

_He hears her laughter in his mind again; this time it is thrilled, gleeful laughter. "I knew you would see things my way, Trickster, though I did not think you would so soon."_

_'Tell me where I can find these artifacts, and I will begin my search immediately."_

_"You're so eager," Amora chuckles. "The first is an amulet of disguise, with sorcery to cloak its wearer's visage with that of another. It was found by a mortal and, like your useless rock, was placed in a museum, in Norway."_

_"How will I travel there without drawling attention to myself? You forget—I have Thor watching my every move."_

_"I will transport you there and back in an instant. No one will be aware of your absence."_

"Got you," Loki whispers, almost lovingly, as he opens another clear plastic drawer, finding a small, golden amulet encased in a bed of cloth, shielded from curious eyes. He gingerly lifts the object from its case, feeling the weight of it in the palm of his hand. The metal has been shaped to resemble Jörmungandr, the World Serpent. The gold creature, perpetually biting it's own tail, stuck in an endless cycle, encases a crimson stone. He exhales softly, eyes flicking over the artifacts on the examination table, the box of rubber gloves, and the tools the mortals use to preserve their relics. The item contains magic—he can sense its power.

"I have the amulet." The words are barely past Loki's lips before he is teleported roughly back to his room, the breath knocked from his body with the force and quickness of the journey. He fights nausea and the throbbing pain behind his eyes as he steadies himself against the wall.  _But, dear Amora,_ Loki thinks to himself,  _I will not use these items to break Asgard, nor Odin. I will use them to unbind my sorcery, and to continue to live in freedom._

Loki takes a few seconds to close his eyes, breathing deeply. He stiffens, alert to the voices that mutter back and forth outside of his courters. Thor's voice, Stark's voice. Loki lets out a breathy groan of annoyance. "Can I not vanish for five minutes without causing a panic?"

Loki uncurls his fist and glances down at the amulet that rests on his palm. The gold glints dully in the dim light of the room, the serpentine shape that is wrapped around the gem seemingly slithering in the shadows, the gold chain swinging. He gently tucks the item away in the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, straightens up, and heads for the door.

When the door slides open, and light floods into the room in a pool around him, Loki comes face-to-face with Tony Stark. Briefly, Tony makes eye contact with Loki, and he gives him a half-grin. Loki's eyes narrow slightly as his glaze fixes on Thor leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway. "Can I help you, Stark? Or do you and Thor wish to congregate outside of my cell alone?"

"Tell me, Loki," Thor's replies, his voice gruff with some hidden, repressed emotion, "what are you plotting this time? I have had enough of your schemes—"

Loki can see Stark wince out of the corner of his eye. "Now, why would I be plotting, Thor? That does not sound like me at all."

Thor takes a step towards him, and Tony holds up his hands in surrender, trying to push himself between them. Thor grabs the front of Loki's shirt. "The Norn stones," Thor growls, "are unpredictable and uncontrollable. You will not use them—"

"They are surely in Asgard, Thor, and I cannot just go waltzing in to retrieve them, can I?"

"Don't make me put on my suit, boys." Tony warns, and though his expression is friendly, his tone suggests that he means his threat.

"Do not touch me." Loki cups his hands around Thor's and pries his fingers from his shirt. " I am in no mood to have accusations shouted at me."

Tony folds his arms across his arc reactor, eyeing Loki and Thor skeptically. "I honestly feel like we have this conversation every damn day—different topic, same words. I'm no Doctor Phil, but I don't think that's exactly what you'd call healthy" He sighs. "Look, let's just hash this out over some drinks—because I really need a drink."

"This does not concern you, Stark," Thor interjects gruffly. "You mean well—"

"How is this not my concern? Sure, he's not my genocidal, adopted half-frost giant brother, but you involved me in this thing when you dropped the Loki bomb on me at the museum, and once I get invested in something, I don't just go away like a good little soldier."

"Stark—  
"Thor—" Tony mocks Thor's thick accent and way of speaking.

Loki rolls his eyes, casts a fleeting clone, and sneaks away unnoticed. He reasons that he has a few minutes to himself before he is found out. Loki walks along the corridors, past closed doors, and heads to the shining elevator. He rides the elevator to the topmost floor.

* * *

"Are you, uh, enjoying the view?" Bruce takes one step out onto the balcony, shoves his hands into his pockets. He shuffles his feet, chances a glance at Loki, who is leaning against the glass railing, his back to the tower and everyone in it.

Loki chuckles lightly. "I  _was_  enjoying the solitude."

"Solitude is hard to find around here, what with the alien invasions and bank robberies and all." Bruce scoffs at his little joke, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He squints up at the sky, watching the clouds roll in to block the midday sun. The tile floor is pleasantly warm under his feet as he takes another step out, having been baking in the sun all day. "I find that solitude is overrated, and that you can hide from your problems in it all you want, but," he pauses, smiles, "life, ah—it has a way of pulling you away from it."

"I disagree. I quite like being alone."

 _Okay, Banner, you get the hint yet?_ Bruce clears his throat, "then I take it I should leave?"

"That would be advisable, yes."

Bruce thinks that he knows why Tony likes this crazy god so much, because Loki is the only one who can rival his snarky, sarcastic comments. "I promise I won't smash you this time," Bruce tries, letting out a half-hearted laugh.

"I believe I'd rather try to converse with the grunting green beast, than listen to you prattle on."

Bruce beams. "Oh? Why's that?"

Loki twists around savagely, jade eyes ablaze with irritation, bright in the day light. "For one, you are a mortal, powerless and weak, hiding your true potential and power out of  _fear_. You are not worth my breath—the beast, however, is somewhat more worthy."

"Why?" Bruce asks calmly, brows creasing as his heart sinks.

"The  _Hulk,_ as your teammates call him, is a warrior—capable of more destruction and victory and might than you could ever dream yourself. And here you are, a soft-spoken, cowering mortal, unwilling to give yourself over completely to the monster, to let him rule. Instead of embracing your power, you pretend it doesn't exist. If I had such power, nothing would stop me. That it why you are pathetic."

Bruce nods slowly, as if in agreement. "I meant, what does me being a mortal have to do with it? You seem to like Stark well enough, and he's a mortal."

Loki turns away, his dark hair whipping around him. He hunches his shoulders. "Mortal's lives are fleeting—over in an instant. They live a breath on this planet—a whisper of time in my realm. That is why my people, as children, were taught to interact with humans, but never become involved."

"Maybe that's why you should get involved—why you should care—because mortals are here and gone so fast. Maybe you should value them more for that."

"A god's memory is limited—thought we can live for thousands of years, our memories can only hold so much. In time, we forget people, and places, and events—there may come a time when I even forget Stark—" Loki breaks off, inhaling sharply. "It is useless to try to remember mortals, when their lives are so brief." Bruce swears that he almost hears a kind of sorrow in Loki's voice—a wavering. Suddenly, Bruce remembers how ancient this man is-how much he has lived through.

Bruce is not quite sure what to say to that particular comment. "I was going to ask you—that's, uh, why I came out here—if you wanted any coffee. I just made a pot."

Loki stretches leisurely, arching his back with a groan. "I would not protest. Hold the salt, please."

Bruce smiles.

* * *

When Thor finally catches up to him, Loki is sitting in a leather armchair, sipping from a mug, with his feet resting on Stark's glass coffee table. Stark is not far behind him, though he veers off, heading in the direction of the wet bar with impressive speed.

"The Norn stones—" Thor starts, charging towards Loki, before Tony quickly cuts him off.

"Let's take a breather on that subject, okay, buddy? I mean, change the record for a minute. You can hardly talk to him about sneaking around when you're about to zap off to Asgard without telling him."

Loki sits up, eyes widening. "What's this?"

"I have merely been summoned to return the S.H.I.E.L.D. prisoner, Skruge, to the palace. That is all. I do not think that this meeting as much to do with you, Loki."

"It seems the All-father has taken up the art of trickery—a tactic he apparently despises only when it comes from me." Loki leans back in his chair, nursing a steaming mug of coffee, a slight whisper of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "It appears we have a common enemy," he practically purrs, jade eyes flicking up to meet Thor's hard gaze.

Thor paces the main room furiously, the sun reflecting brilliantly off of his golden hair as he passes the wall of glossy windows overlooking the city. His footfalls are loud, heavy, pounding steps against stone floors, hands clasped behind his back. "Our father," Thor grunts, "is not our enemy." Loki can see the strain in him—the strain that tenses his muscles and grits his teeth and makes his fingers twitch for Mjolnir.

Loki raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" He questions savagely. "After everything—every lie—after you defied his orders and freed me, and you still call him  _father_?"

"Do I not still call you brother?" Thor halts, turning to face Loki. He is a bulky figure, a silhouette of power and the golden might of Asgard in the light of the sun, looking down at Loki from his vantage point—always looking down. "I have forgiven you, and I will award the same treatment to our father, who loves you still, despite his cruelty."

"I remember no father, only the man who turned his eye away from me as I begged him to kill me rather than to let me suffer for an eternity."

"Our father was wrong—so very wrong—to place such a sentence on your head, but you must not place all of the blame on his shoulders. He may have been misguided, but the All-father has only ever done what he thought was best for his people."

Loki's eye flash, and he leans forward, slender fingers gripping the armrests of his chair till his knuckles blanch and the fabric gives way. "That is true. He wants what is best for  _his_  people, the Aesir. He protects people of his own kind." Loki inhales raggedly, moistens his dry lips with his tongue. "Do take your own words to heart, Thor, and remember that he is willing to go to great lengths to ensure the safety of Asgard. He will imprison you if you return—keep you somewhere hidden, where you can no longer betray him."

Thor's features soften. "Your concern is appreciated, Brother—"

"Not concern—logic and reason—"

"But I must do this. I must speak with him." Thor exhales sharply, running his thick fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. "Do you not see, Loki? This is my chance to vouch for you—to convince him to see reason. I must try."

"You really are a great, blundering fool, Thor."

"I will inform the All-father that it was I who released you, of my own free will—no trickery or threats involved. I will inform him that you spared my life—and of you saving the life of a mortal, Stark—"

"Thor—"

"He will listen to me—he will understand—"

Loki opens his mouth to retort, but closes it again, as if his lips have been stitched shut. He weighs his options—considers the benefits of Thor's foolish plan. He runs his hand through his damp hair, slicking back the strands that stick to the sheen of sweat on his face. "Perhaps the All-father will listen to  _you_. I suppose I cannot stop you either way."

Loki notices the way Stark is looking at him—a look of suspicion at his sudden acceptance of Thor's foolhardy mission. Loki offers him a nod of acknowledgement, of trust. Tony winks, and then turns and exits the room, heading down the corridor, presumably to one of his workstations.

"You do have some faith in me, do you not, Brother?"

"Yes, of course I do."

* * *

_JARVIS is never wrong—my technology is never wrong._ Tony scratches his head at the puzzle of Loki vanishing for a brief flicker from the detection system. It's possible that Loki's energy could interfere in some way with the tech—but not on that scale. Something is wrong.

"God, I hope I'm wrong," Tony whispers under his breath, tapping the keys of his computer. " _JARVIS,_ access the security footage in Loki's room, and start it at about," Tony pauses, glancing at his wristwatch, "thirty minutes ago."

Tony tries to ignore the guilt he feels at watching the footage. He stares at the screen—at Loki, lounging on the bed, reading a book, tossing the book across the room, sitting on the floor, peering out of the slits in the window, sitting back down—it's the compulsive, anxious dance of someone who has not slept or had a moment of peace in what seems like a lifetime. Tony recognizes it—the twitchy, almost panicked movements—because he has seen it in himself too many times. The tape skips.  _No—not skipping—something different._  If Tony had blinked, he would have missed it. But it's there—in the footage—an energy signature enveloping the kneeling Mischief God—and then he's gone. Loki is gone from the room in a flash of green, vanished.

Tony stops the tape, squinting at the screen quizzically, as if trying to find some explanation. He fast-forwards the footage, plays it, watching with wide eyes as Loki reappears, an object in his hand, and hides something in the nightstand of his room. "What have you done?" Tony asks softly to the blurred image on the screen. He receives no reply.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated! I blame midterms. 
> 
> Thanks to all of my new story followers/reviewers. Your kudos and comments are cherished! I know this chapter was pretty Loki-focused and dialogue-heavy, but next chapter is where the action really starts, so stay tuned.


	14. Chapter 14

Tony runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He gazes out at the cityscape, at the sunlight reflecting golden off the glass windows and metal structures, at the masses of cars and taxis that weave expertly in and out of traffic. He leans back in his chair on the hotel suite balcony, glancing at Pepper sitting across from him. They sit at a small table, a tray of room service food and beverages on a stand beside them.

“I needed this,” Tony says between sips of wine. “I mean I really needed this.”

Pepper smiles, and Tony is awed by her beauty, awed by the fact that this woman cares for him—overwhelmed with a need to touch her, to reach out to see if she is really there.

“ _You’ve_  been needing this?” Pepper teases with mock incredulity. “Have you forgotten who runs your company for you, Mr. Stark?”

“You’ll never let me forget it.” Tony downs the last of his glass, reaches for the bottle.

There is a pause. The only sounds are the sloshing of the beverage against the glass, the faint sound of traffic, silverware clinking. Tony focuses on the tablecloth, on the crimson stain of wine that spreads across the fabric with every drop.

It has been days since Tony has seen Pepper, one day since he had seen the security footage of Loki teleporting, and a nights since Tony has slept peacefully. Tony looks at Pepper like she will disappear. He feels like he’s falling.

“What the hell did I ever do to deserve someone as forgiving, and kind, and—and  _inherently good_  as you, Pep?” Tony asks with a snort of disbelief. He grins. “I mean, I’ve done some crap, I’ve made too many mistakes. I still make mistakes—the same mistakes. Yet, here you are. Why is that?”

Pepper’s eyebrows rise. “You’re a good man, Tony—mistakes and all—despite what you think.” She drops her knife and fork, her full attention on Tony. “What’s brought this on?”

“Better question,” Tony continues, quick to dodge the comment, “how does someone like Loki end up with a brother like Thor in his life? How does that work? Because I’ve tried to figure it out—figure out why Thor forgives him again and again, and what Loki did to deserve it.”

Pepper leans forward, her strawberry blonde hair blowing in the breeze and whipping across her face. She cups Tony’s face, meets his gaze. He leans into her touch. “Maybe it’s not about what Loki deserves. Maybe it’s about what he doesn’t deserve, and how Thor is there for him anyway. Maybe that’s the point.”

Tony’s lips twitch at a ghost of a smile. It is a bitter smile. “I knew I kept you around for some reason. You always know what to say.”

“Is that why we’re here, to talk about Loki?” Pepper’s tone is not irritated or jaded, merely cautious and wary.

“I had the dream again.” Tony chuckles, runs his finger around the rim of the glass, listening to the sharp melody it makes. “I’ve got to stop eating before bed, huh?”

Pepper frowns ever so slightly—a flicker of pain. Tony follows the movement of her hand with his eyes, watching as she reaches over and gently rests it on his knee. “Tony—”

“I know what you’re going to say—”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“What am I going to say, Tony?”

“You’re going to say that I need to give up—that I need to let Fury take Loki, put him in chains in some underground S.H.I.E.L.D. cell— that I should pretend not to know what they do to prisoners like him.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. But I am worried for you - worried about the effect this is having on you, on your team, your work. I’m scared, Tony.”

“But I can’t just let this go. Not when I can do something.” Tony swallows hard, his chest constricting, breath coming in sharp gasps. “I’m involved now, and I can’t just let that go.”

“Maybe it’s not up to you to save him, Tony. Some people just don’t want to be saved.”

Tony shakes his head, picks up his fork, and spears a piece of stake from his plate. The food is cold by this point, but Tony does not notice or care. He chews slowly, eyes glazing over as he stares at the table. “Anyway,” he mutters, “what’s been going on with you? How’s work treating you, Pep?”

“You don’t want to hear about work.”

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

“Talk me through this Loki situation.”

Tony pauses. “Why?”

“He’s obviously on your mind. If it means this much to you, then I want to know why.”

“I’ve told you the whole screwed up story, Pep.”

“So give me updates.”

Tony sighs, stabs at his stake with his knife. “For one thing, Thor has been summoned to Asgard for a royal timeout from daddy one-eye.” He squares his shoulder, looks away. “Loki is up to something.”

Pepper just stares at him. “You seem surprised by this turn of events?”

“I trusted him.”

“Isn’t he the actual God of Lies?”

“It doesn’t matter. Look, whatever he’s planning, it’s not good. I just wish he’d let me help.”

“I know you do, Tony, but—”

“Oh no, there’s a ‘but’—”

“ _But_ , maybe the best way to help him is to make sure he’s somewhere he can’t hurt himself or other people. Maybe you trying to give him freedom and choice is what’s killing him. He’s not you, Tony.”

“What are you trying to say?” Tony clenches his fists to stop his hands from trembling.

“Tony—”

“No. You think that this is just me projecting and trying to fix him for some screwed up reason. This isn’t me trying to save myself, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

Tony exhales deeply. “Maybe, if I help him escape this bullshit prophecy—his fate, or whatever—maybe I can escape my own.” Tony scoffs at himself, adding, “that sounds so idiotic, doesn’t it? I think drama queen is rubbing off on me.”

“Your fate, Tony? What fate?” Pepper asks gently.

Tony closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face, letting out a groan of frustration. “I don’t know,” he mutters, “I just—when I looked into that wormhole, and after everything that’s happened—” he pauses, unsure of what to say. “Loki told me that humans know little of fate—and that I was touched by fate when that bomb didn’t kill me—when that shrapnel didn’t reach my heart—and I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop.”

Pepper places her hands over Tony’s, pulling them from his face. She smiles at him. “If fate exists, and if you have one, Tony Stark, it can only be a good thing.”

Tony chuckles halfheartedly. “Yeah, I guess—but that’s not the point. The point is, good or bad, it’s still unavoidable—if you believe in crap like that.”

Pepper stares at him from across the table, expression somber. Tony folds his arms and turns away from her, gazing out at the cityscape. He taps his foot rapidly, unable to stay still, his mind humming.

“Maybe I could have turned out like him—I almost did. I mean, my company sold weapons to the highest bidder, and my body count is high, Pep—higher than Loki’s. I have to fix him.”

“He’s not one of your machines, Tony.”

Tony scoffs, shakes his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I know. If he were, it would be a lot easier.”

“Well, in any case, I suppose I should be glad you’re there for him, even if he doesn’t deserve your concern. You’ll help him, somehow.”

Tony chuckles. “I thought you said that he doesn’t need to deserve concern—that that was the point?”

Pepper leans over the table. “I was talking about Thor. There is no way Loki could ever deserve  _you_.”

Tony pretends to think. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment, or a slight against me. By the way, did you just dub me as Loki’s Jiminy Cricket?”

“It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

“You see, I’ve always pictured myself as more of a Gepetto figure. You know, the whole ‘inventor’ thing?”

“Does that mean you’ll help turn Loki into a real boy?”

They both laugh at the ridiculousness of the parallel.

“God, that sounds vaguely naughty,” Tony comments. He sighs, tracing a finger around the edge of his plate. “But yeah—maybe I can get him off the path of lies and destruction. No magical fairy needed.”

Pepper laughs softly. “Do you really have to leave already?”

Tony stands, tossing his napkin on the table. “I wish I didn’t.”  _But I have to get back to the tower…I have to stop him before he can do anything else behind my back._

* * *

Thor once again finds himself glaring at the holographic image of S.H.I.E.L.D. director, Nick Fury. Thor sits on the edge Stark’s leather couch, elbows resting on his knees, one hand propping up his chin, expression stony. He is dressed in his armor, minus the mail scales of Asgardian steel on his arms, to show Fury that he means business. The director had agreed to meet with him over the computer, rather than him having to enter the base for a face-to-face chat.

“Tell me again, Thor—what exactly do you want us to do?”

“The All-father has requested the release of Skurge, The Executioner, from your prison. I will return him to Asgard,” Thor states firmly.

“And in return?”

Thor gapes. “I have given you all the information on Amora that I know. I have nothing else to give you,” Thor exclaims gruffly. “Skurge is a citizen of Asgard, and by right, he should be returned.”

“If Loki won’t talk, and you got nothing, then our prisoner is the only source of information we got.”

“Loki will not speak with you because he knows nothing of Amora’s plans or whereabouts. You will not mention him again.”

“As long as he is contained and under control.”

“Loki is our prisoner. He is contained.

“Hear me, director Fury,” Thor says, leaning closer to the screen, his tone warning, “it would be unwise of you to keep Skurge in captivity when the All-father is preparing to send more warriors to claim him, as well as Loki.”

Fury sighs, rubs his temples. “Fine. The last thing we need is more of your kind zapping down to earth.”

“I am glad we have reached an agreement. Know that I only want what is best for Midgard. I will collect Skurge at dawn tomorrow, and return him to Asgard.”

“And your people will stand down?”

Thor opens his mouth to answer, but swears under his breath instead when he sees the flicker of rage in Fury’s expression, and feels a presence near him. He turns his head to see Loki standing behind him, a smirk on his face.

“Hello, director,” Loki nods to the screen, grinning savagely. He waggles his fingers, prompting a warning glare from Thor. “It is lovely to see you again so soon.”

Loki makes a grand show of propelling himself gracefully over the back of the couch, sitting next to Thor, and letting out a forced sigh of contentment. He takes a sip from Thor’s steaming mug of coffee that rests on the table. He stretches out his arms, flaunting his freedom.

“Yeah, Thor, I can see you have the prisoner contained.”

“Farewell, director Fury.”

The transmission cuts out. Thor scowls at Loki. It is strange, Thor thinks, how in some moments Loki can be so lost to him, so trapped in the void he fell through years ago, yet other times he can see traces of the Trickster brother who delighted in jests and still truly loved him.

Loki straightens up, moving subtly away from Thor, and meets his gaze. “I see you are still set on your task,” he remarks, jade eyes boring into Thor’s.

Thor nods once before asking, “why do you provoke Fury? He is still vying for your interrogation.”

“I do not know of what nonsense you speak, Thor,” Loki feigns puzzlement. The corners of his mouth tug at amusement. “Though,” he adds softly, “his reaction was very gratifying.”

Thor does his best to suppress a chuckle. His laughter fades as quickly as it started, though, when the reality of their situation weighs heavy on his shoulders once more. But there is hope too, in the darkness, and light.

“When do you leave?” Loki inquires quietly. He laces his fingers together, fidgets.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I do not intend to stay long. I will return Skurge, and speak with Father.” Thor stares blankly at the wall of stone behind the computer where Fury’s face was moments ago. He chances a glance at Loki. “I will not leave until Father sees reason.”

Loki chuckles lightly. “Then you will be away an eternity.”

Thor’s smile fades. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to sweep back thick tangles. “The All-father may be resolute, but he can change his mind.”

“And before you broke my chains and stole me away,” Loki murmurs, “did you try to reason with him?”

Thor bows his head. He wonders what he can possibly say to assure Loki, to ease his mind. Thor wonders if Loki even truly wants to be saved from his punishment, after he had claimed that he would have rather died than be sparred by him. But, although Loki tries to hide it, Thor can sense his fear-his fear that he will be returned to that horrible place. Thor cannot let him down—not again—no matter what sacrifices he must make.

“Yes,” Thor admits gruffly. “He had forbid me to see you. I defied his orders and went to Heimdall.”

Loki’s brow creases in the way it does when he is thinking very hard about something. “And Heimdall disobeyed his king for you? Why?”

“My coronation.”

Loki wheels around to face him, eyes wide with some well-hidden emotion. “You were crowned? Why did you not inform me?”

Thor is taken aback. “I-I did not think it necessary.”

“I suppose your kingship was revoked when you disobeyed the last command of the All-father king by freeing me.” Loki laughs to himself, almost bitterly, adding, “That’s two coronations I’ve managed to spoil for you.”

Thor frowns. “I have not been back to Asgard since that day.”

“Then you must consider the possibility that Odin will imprison you for treason.”

“I will.”

Loki rises, offering Thor an odd smile. “Return soon. Do not let yourself end up in a dungeon and leave me here alone with these mortals.”

“Aye,” Thor says, returning the smile.

There is a brief pause. “Where is Stark?”

Thor shrugs. “I do not know. He left early this morning, and has been gone for a few hours.”

* * *

Loki walks from the main room to the gym, leaving Thor behind to think over his choices. He stares at the row of throwing knives and grimaces. He crouches on the floor of the gymnasium, barefoot and clothed in a snug athletic shirt and trousers, hands hovering over the case of neatly organized weapons. He tenses, hearing soft footsteps behind him. Loki smirks.

“Greetings, agent Barton,” he drawls. He stands to his feet, not bothering to look at the agent when addressing him. Loki takes a knife from the casing, tilting his head in amusement as the blade catches the light.

“Who the hell let you near the weapons?”

Loki turns slowly, unable to stop his mouth from splitting into a wolfish grin. He twirls the blade between his fingers, eyes flicking over Barton’s frame, watching as muscles tense and pulse quickens.

“I assure you, agent, I am allowed to be here. If you have a problem, then by all means, take it up with  _Stark_.” The name lingers on his lips like a triumphant battle cry. He lets the words fill him with their power. He knows that Barton knows that he can do whatever he likes, as long as Stark is on his side.

Clint exhales sharply, turning to take a bow from the rack against the wall. “You really have Stark wrapped around your finger, don’t you? What did you do to him, charm him or something?”

Loki merely smiles, not breaking eye contact. Let Barton think whatever he wishes. “Does it upset you, Barton, knowing that Stark takes my side?”

Clint’s expression is suddenly serious, devoid of any bitter amusement. His arms lower to his sides. “You know it won’t last, right?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“One day, Stark is going to see you for who you really are. He’ll realize that you’re just playing him, and he’ll get rid of you. Hell, maybe one day Thor will stop defending you—maybe the next time you hold a dagger over his chest and I don’t shoot you down.”

“And you plan to tell Stark of my wicked schemes, yes? What am I planning? Do enlighten me.”

“I don’t need to tell him anything. You’ll screw your relationship just fine on your own.”

“How exactly am I playing Stark? I have never once asked for his aid and trust—he gives it to me of his own free will.”

“But you take advantage of that,” Barton counters.

Loki rolls his eyes. “Whatever plans I may or may not have, they do not include Stark.”

Loki glances down at his hand, wincing as a sharp pain burns through his palm, and unclenches his fists. He hadn’t realized that he has been grasping the knife so tightly that it has cut into his flesh.

“Would it shock you to know that I have no intention of destroying him? Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Would it shock you to know that I don’t believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth?”

Loki lets out a genuine laugh this time. He runs a hand through his matted hair, pushing back strands, trying it slick it back into its usual style. “When you speak like that, it reminds me of our conversations when you served me. I know a lot about you, Barton, more than you know of me.”

Loki feels a swelling in his chest as Clint notches an arrow, knowing that he has pulled the right strings to get the desired reaction.

“If you lodge an arrow into my wall again, bird boy, I’m taking it out of your paycheck.”

Loki and Clint both turn to face Stark, who stands in a wide stance in the doorway of the gym. He is dressed in sweat pants and a plain t-shirt, different from his usual expensive attire. Loki guesses that he is here to train as well.

“You don’t pay me,” Clint points out dryly.

“I—” Tony frowns. “Well, you have point there. Fine, I’ll ban you from the espresso machine. How’s that?”

Clint lowers his bow. “It’s not worth it,” he deadpans. Tony gives him a dirty look.

Tony walks to the boxing ring, ducks under the ropes. “Do I need to separate you two—put you in time out—what?”

“Your pasty little friend was stealing weapons, by the way.”

“Borrowing,” Loki corrects curtly. He holds up the small daggers that are tucked neatly between his fingers, poised to strike, and throws them at one of the blue foam dummies that line the opposite wall. The knives hit their mark with lethal precision. “For practice, you see.”

“It’s cool,” Tony says, holding up his hands and shrugging. “I told him he could practice here whenever he wanted. Don’t sweat it, Clint.”

Clint lets out a groan of disbelief. “Fury will be thrilled to hear that.”

Tony, obviously ignoring Barton, flicks his gaze to Loki and winks. “Well, as far as Fury knows, Loki is locked up in the containment room we have for Hulk. Let’s keep it that way.”

Stark then turns back to Loki. “So, anyway, I thought we could just sit around, have a nice little chat about our feelings—all that fun stuff—”

Loki raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, I’m leaving—I’m leaving,” Clint grumbles, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation. “It’s not like I can ever get any practice in here anyway—”

When Clint exits the gym, the sharp sound of the sliding metal door closing behind him still echoing through the room, Tony beams. “Good. I was hoping to get rid of him.” Stark stares at Loki expectantly, as if he is supposed to react a certain way.

Loki plucks the daggers from the dummy’s flesh, eyeing them fondly. “You lied.”

“Hmm?”

“You lied to Barton. You never gave me permission to use your equipment.”

Stark leans over the ropes of the boxing ring, shrugs nonchalantly. “I never said you  _couldn’t_.”

Loki twirls one of the blades between his fingers absently, not looking at Stark. “You trust me then?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Depends on your definition of trust, buddy,” Tony laughs. “You did save my life. I don’t forget stuff like that. Besides, you’re the only one who can match my witty banter. Hell, we even shared a hotel room. If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now.”

Loki drops to his knees and begins placing the knives neatly into their casings, his back to Stark, shoulders hunched as if to shield himself from something. “Your teammates would disagree.”

“Not all of them. Thor trusts you.”

Loki clenches his jaw. Words and curses build in his mind, form on his tongue, but he does not utter them. “That,” he finally states, “is questionable.”

When Loki stands and turns around, Stark is fitting a foam helmet over his head and punching the air. “JARVIS,” Stark addresses the ceiling, “play us some fitting tunes.”

“ _Right away, Sir.”_

Loki grimaces only slightly when a Midgardian song begins to play loudly from speakers in the room. The song is obviously amusing in some way, as Stark instantly laughs.

“ _Why Can’t We Be Friends_. War. That’s funny, JARVIS, really,” Tony announces. At Loki’s irritated expression, he asks, “well, what would you like to listen to, princess? ‘Fraid I don’t have a wide range of elegant classical music to please your royal ears. Would you prefer some Viking metal? You know, you have a bit of a pagan following.”

_“You downloaded five albums of Viking metal last night, Sir. Would you like me to play a selection?”_

Tony clears his throat, glancing down at his feet. “Uh, that was supposed to be between us, JARVIS.” He claps his hands, points to Loki. “You, what music do you like?”

Loki smiles curtly. “The lyre.”

“The ly-” Tony stops, grinning. “You would. Play on words?”

“Perhaps.”

Tony punches at the air again, hops from foot to foot nimbly. “Get in here. I need practice. It’ll be fun. Probably.”

Loki does not miss the subtle changes in Stark’s demeanor. Stark is practically bouncing off of the walls, fidgeting nervously, on edge—perhaps on the verge of a break down. Loki knows that something has changed. Loki strides to the ring but does not enter.

“You wish me to fight you?” Loki asks, incredulous.

“Yep.”

“You insult me, Stark.”

“I think I remember kicking your ass a few years ago.”

“You were not alone, and you wore your armor.”

“And you had your super special awesome magic powers, and a glow stick that didn’t quite work—”

Loki exhales sharply. He grabs the ropes and launches himself over into the ring. He takes pleasure in Stark’s impressed expression. “If you really insist, Stark,” Loki snaps, “then do shut your mouth and brace yourself.”

They stand in the ring for what seems like a few minutes, staring, observing, waiting for the other to make his move. Loki widens his stance, eyes flicking over Stark’s tensed form. He sees Tony twitch in anticipation and Loki instantly springs into action, easily dodging Stark’s jab to his chest. Loki dances out of the way effortlessly before going in for an attack of his own. He stops short of landing a blow of Stark’s throat, his fist outstretched.

Stark looks confused, jumps back slightly, nearly tripping over himself. Taking advantage of Loki’s hesitation, Stark tries to land another punch. Loki catches his fist, grabs his forearm, and jerks him forward so that there are only mere inches between them.

Stark struggles against Loki’s hold, confusion morphing into slight panic. “What are you—”

“If this was a real fight, you would be dead now. I would have broken your neck,” Loki hisses, watching as Stark’s brown eyes go wide. Loki lets go of Stark’s fist, then turns to exit the ring. “I am in no mood to be challenged, Stark.”

Tony flexes his bruised fist, lips stuck out in a pout. Loki turns his back on him.

“I’m not done yet,” Stark exclaims, and Loki lets out a yelp of surprise as Stark delivers a solid sweeping kick to his legs, sending him sprawling on his back.

With a growl, Loki rolls out of the way of Stark’s punch, jumping to his feet. Loki’s jabs are so furious and precise that Stark has to practically throw himself across the mat to avoid a direct hit. Loki lands a blow with his elbow to Tony’s chest that sends him kneeling and gasping for air.

“Hey—” Tony wheezes, dodging another hit, “I figured this would be the best way to get you to talk to me—”

Loki narrows his eyes, panting heavily. “All you do is talk, Stark.”

“Okay, fair point,” Tony steadies himself on the ropes, one hand still clutched to his ribs. “Care to tell me about your surprise road trip the other day, and the pretty little souvenir you brought back? Is it a gift for our two month anniversary?”

Loki charges forward, grabbing the front of Stark’s shirt and tossing him to the ground. “You said I am not your prisoner. You claimed I could leave whenever I wanted.”

“Yeah,” Tony grunts, “you can leave, but I’d like to know about it—and the last time I checked, you can’t teleport. Can you blame me for being suspicious?”

Before Tony can get up, Loki is on top of him, his face inches away from Tony’s. Loki watches as Tony flinches away from him. Beads of perspiration collect on Loki’s brow, roll down his face, plop on Tony’s forehead. “You promised to help me, Stark—”

“That’s what I’m trying to do-that’s what Thor is trying to do—”

“The only way you can help me, mortal, is by allowing me to do what I wish. Turn your back if you must, but I am not leaving my fate in the hands of Thor and the All-father.”

“Who teleported you?”

“It is none of your concern—”

“Amora?”

“If you tell Thor, I will—”

“What? Kill me?”

“You’ll wish that I had.”

“I’ll be honest here—I do not feel comfortable with you saying that in our current position.”

Loki stands to his feet, pulling Stark up after him by his forearm. Tony clears his throat, wincing as his back cracks.

“Do not jest, Stark. If Thor learns of my plans, he will try to stop me. He cannot know.”

Stark, for once, does not wear an arrogant smile. He looks Loki dead in the eyes, saying, “I promise you, I won’t tell Thor, as long as you explain everything to me. No lies.”

“The vile wench was banished from Asgard, and has offered me a way to retrieve the Norn stones. They will restore my power.”

“Okay, that’s not shady at all. And what does she get out of the deal?”

Loki flicks his gaze to the wall, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. “Amora believes that I will harness the power of the stones to take over Asgard and slay all who oppose me. In doing so, she will have a place at my side and her citizenship restored.” He pauses before adding with a hiss, “and Thor will belong to her.”

Loki pretends not to notice the array of emotions that flicker across Stark’s face. Fear, horror, regret, doubt, guilt, anger, and worst of all, something akin to sympathy—they are all present in Stark’s eyes. Loki clenches his fists.

“But you’re not going to do that?”

“No. I will use the stones to regain my power. From there, I will flee from Heimdall’s sight.”

Tony exhales sharply, doubles over, resting his hands on his knees. “Okay—I’m just trying to process all of this—” he says. “You were going to tell me this, right?”

“Of course.”

“Sure you were. I know you’re hoping I’ll just forget about the souvenir. Fess up.”

Loki closes his eyes briefly. Stark is too clever for him. Somehow, the revelation of that brings a fond smile to Loki’s face. “The amulet was a show of trust. It is worthless, like the stone. Amora used her power to transport me to meet her.”

Tony’s expression is one of mock doubt. “Okay, shifty-eyes, I believe you.”

 _Lies._ Loki thinks to himself.  _Why should I not lie to a mortal? I need the amulet-it may be useful in my quest. I cannot afford to tell him everything._ Loki realizes with a pang of dread that he does care what Stark thinks of him. He recalls Amora’s harshly whispered words…

_‘That mortal, Stark, has made a pet out of you. You will need to cut ties with him if you want your vengeance—break his faith in you.’_

Loki returns Stark’s smile.

* * *

Morning comes too quickly, and Thor feels that he has not slept at all. He sits up in bed and surveys the room with eyes still half-shut, untangling his legs from the constricting sheets that have worked their way around him in the night like dark serpents. The light of morning pools in from the slotted window, creating hard lines on the floor, and Thor swings his legs over the bed, standing to his feet.

The room is so silent, almost as if time has stood still, and Thor almost does not want to disturb the peace, knowing what the day will bring. When he rises, the weight returns to his shoulders, and he feels the burden of all that depends on his actions today. He must bargain for Loki’s freedom, and confront the kingdom he forsook to save him.

Silently, Thor begins to shed his Midgardian clothing, don his leather boots and his Asgardian regalia that are laid out on the bed before him. By the time he is fully clothed in his heavier, stiffer clothing, he feels less like a traitor and more like a prince—more like the crowned prince. He strides across the room and lifts Mjolnir. He tests its weight in his hand before clasping it to his belt, and exits the room.

S.H.I.E.L.D sends a small helicarrier that lands on the Stark tower. Thor watches with narrowed eyes as the carrier lands and four heavily armed guards escort a chained Skurge onto the roof, as if to show him that he is really there. The sound of the helicarrier blades slicing through the air is deafening. Thor turns to glance at the tower before boarding the aircraft, he sees a figure watching him behind the tinted glass, and he knows that the figure is Loki. Thor knows that Loki cannot see him nod in reassurance, but he does anyway.

The agents step out of the way as Thor ducks into the aircraft, lowering their guns. Thor watches as they lead Skruge back into the carrier behind him. Thor cannot help but be angered by the sight of Skurge, the once powerful warrior of Asgard and mighty hunter, being prodded around by S.H.I.E.L.D. like an animal.

“Where would you like us to drop you?” one of the agents asks as the carrier takes to the skies once more.

Thor does not sit in the seat provided for him, not even when an agent motions him to do so. He folds his arms across his chest. “Far from the city—in the closest empty field possible.”

“Thunderer,” Skurge grunts in greeting.

“I am taking you to Asgard, Executioner,” Thor replies, his tone as cold and void of sympathy as possible. He has not forgotten how the hunter tried to capture Loki, and even though it was under the orders of the All-father, he will not be friendly with a man such as him.

* * *

_“I have another quest for you, Laufeyson.”_

Loki flinches as Amora’s voice slithers through his head without warning. He grips the book in his hands with such force that the binding gives way. He dare not speak in answer, for Stark is also in the room, trying to repair the shattered stone.

Stark had found Loki in his room after he had watched Thor leave. Stark had invited him for a drink in his workroom, claiming that he wanted company while he researched. Loki had reluctantly obliged, for reasons unknown to him.

Tony spins around in his swivel chair. “So, how exactly are we going to find these magic rocks?” he asks, rolling his chair closer to where Loki sits on the edge of a worktable. He holds out a glass for Loki to take.

“I am not sure,” Loki answers truthfully. He takes the drink from Stark’s hand, brings it to his lips and inhales, the scent of alcohol strong and dizzying. He sips the drink absently, watching as Stark taps away at his technology.

Tony swivels around to grin at him. “Well, if I can work out its energy signature somehow, I think I can pinpoint its exact location. Theoretically. But I’ll need time.”

“How much time?”

Tony throws his hands in the air. “Well, if I was of average intelligence, it might take a few weeks,” he exclaims, “but since I’m Tony Stark, you’re in luck, buddy. A few days, tops.”

“I am not sure that I have a few days.”

“Okay, but, if I figure this out, you won’t need Amora’s help anymore. If I figure this out, then she’s out of the picture. Deal?”

Loki cannot think with Amora hissing his name in his head, over and over. It is maddening. Loki rises, setting his drink on the table. “I will do what I see fit,” he states through clenched teeth, pressing his fingers to his temples and rubbing soothing circles.

Loki ignores Stark calling out to him as he exits the room without another word. Loki strides down the corridor, past the main room, to the elevator. He rides the elevator to the floor he shares with Thor, making his way to his room. He hopes that Stark will have sense enough not to follow him.

“Enchantress?” Loki questions the air once the door has shut itself behind him. “What do you want?”

_“There is a dagger on Midgard that you will need for your vengeance, Trickster.”_

Loki growls curses under his breath. He paces restlessly around the room. “I have had enough of your errands, Enchantress. I have no need of a blade.”

_“You must trust me, Loki.”_

Loki doubles over with forced, humorless laughter, breathless from it. “That is very amusing.” Loki halts his pacing, folding his arms behind his back. “Why would I need a dagger when I will have the Norn stones?”

There is a pause, and Loki is practically giddy from Amora’s shocked silence.

_“You will not need the stones if you have the items.”_

Loki’s mouth splits into a slash of a smile and he twirls around with a flourish in his manic glee. “Do I hear fear in your voice, Amora? How better to make Asgard kneel than with the Norn stones?”

_“Very well, Sly One—you search for the Norn stones, but I doubt you will find them. In the meantime, you should be gathering the items of power.”_

Loki shudders when he feels her magic, her energy, and her force envelop him. Part of his mind is panicked by her power, for he knows not how she is strong enough to summon her magic to meet him when she is worlds away, and how she is able to teleport him. But his thrill at winning the mind game against her, and of his plans taking root overshadow any doubt or concern he has over her magic. He allows it to take him, and suddenly he is no longer in Stark tower.

* * *

Thor plummets back to Midgard from the repaired Bifrost. He is alone. Disoriented, he stumbles over the scorched ground where the Bifrost has burned ancient marks into the grass and weeds, his mind still racing from all he has witnessed. The weight on his shoulders has not lessened, but the flickering feeling of hope has been kindled anew by what he has learned.

Everything is a blur as Thor contacts S.H.I.E.L.D. and calls for the helicarrier to take him back to the tower and as he stands and waits. He is unable to remain still, and he paces the field, made restless by his news. The All-father had not banished him or locked him away as Loki had feared, and he had listened to Thor’s pleading with silent contemplation. He remembers every detail.

As  _Thor lands on the Bifrost with Skurge in hand, Odin’s royal guards instantly greet him. Thor stands there stiffly, unsure of what action to take, when they all bow on one knee, one arm against their chests in a show of respect. Thor, taken aback, commands them to rise. They do so and begin to lead Skurge away._

_Thor turns to Heimdall, who’s gaze has been fixed on him. The sentinel stands firm and unyielding, mighty sword in hand, watching over the newly repaired Bifrost. Thor eyes him almost sheepishly before speaking._

_“Heimdall,” Thor says, voice gruff, “it is good to see you, my friend.”_

_The sentinel nods slowly. “Your father waits to meet you. You should make haste.”_

_Although his expression gives nothing away, Thor can still sense affection in his tone. The walk along the Bifrost is leisurely, but Thor is not eager to fly to the palace, not when he can take the time to gaze upon his shining city and breath in the air and the familiar scents and see the churning waters below him. How he has missed Asgard in his absence._

_When Thor reaches the mighty golden doors that lead to the throne room, any calm he felt during his walk has left him and is replaced with harsh determination. The light of the Asgardian day reflecting off of gold-gilded walls and ceiling is brilliant and Thor nearly has to look away from its splendor._

_“All-father,” Thor bows his head respectfully, if not to hide the shock on his face at the All-father’s condition._

_Odin used to sit proudly on his throne, a beacon of hope and justice and leadership. He is old. He has always looked old, but now it seems the weariness of his age has caught up to him. He slumps on the throne, features sagging, his expression dull and sad. His demeanor changes instantly at Thor’s voice booming and echoing throughout the hall._

_“My son, you have returned.”_

_Thor straightens up. “I have come to reason with you, Father, on behalf of my brother, Loki.”_

_“I am aware of your mission,” Odin replies, his tone just as firm as Thor’s, and he reaches for_ _Gungnir, “and I will hear you.”_

_“Father,” Thor starts, steeling himself. “I disobeyed your orders and I journeyed to Loki’s prison. When I saw him in such agony, I broke his chains and freed him. The act was of my own will. Loki did not trick me in any way. The crime of his escape is mine to bear only. I only ask that you listen to what I say, and consider mercy._

_“Loki has been living on Midgard with myself and the Avengers. He has proven himself by sparing my life and saving the life of the mortal, Stark, whom he has grown to cherish. He has truly changed his ways, All-father, and should be shown grace for his trouble.”_

_The silence that follows his words is thick and tangible. Thor holds his breath. The moments that follow are laborious._

_“I know all of what you have told me already, for I have been watching.”_

_Thor remembers Tony speaking of Loki’s panic when he claimed to see two ravens at his window. Thor does not have time to think on the matter further, however, when Odin clangs Gungnir against the palace floor, and a figure lurks into view. Amora._

_Thor has to stop himself from grabbing Mjolnir and charging at her. He stays where he is, afraid that any move he makes will change the All-father’s mind. His gaze flicks to Amora, who stands with her arms folded across her chest, a smug smile on her face._

_“I have been informed of Loki’s acts on Midgard, both the good and the bad, and I have decided to allow him a trial period in order to prove himself. If he passes, I shall consider a lighter sentence.”_

_Thor cannot keep himself from beaming—from taking steps forward and reaching out grateful in his excitement. “Father, I thank you—”_

_“His test has already begun. Lady Amora has agreed to serve as his tester, and has offered him a chance to destroy the realms and seek revenge against Asgard. Should he fail, the consequences will be dire._

_“Understand, Thor, that Loki must not know of this test, and you are not to interfere with his choices in any way. This is the only mercy I can allow. I can only hope that he will make the right choice.”_

And so Thor had left with the All-father’s words ringing in his ears, with the promise of mercy filling his chest with hope. The helicarrier comes for him, and soon he is on his way back to the tower.

* * *

Loki is teleported back to his chambers from a mortal museum in Germany, dagger in hand. Although the blade has no use to him, he cannot help but admire the craftsmanship of the thing. The blade’s silver handle is carved in the shape of a wolf’s head, snarling and savage, though Loki can only sense a small amount of magic energy to it.

“What does this dagger do, exactly? Is it as useless as the amulet?”

_“The amulet is not useless. If you wear it, you need only to summon your energy and think of the person you wish to become…and you can make it so.”_

When he turns to exit his room, to return to Stark, Loki stumbles back, startled when he opens the door to find Thor blocking his path. Loki’s initial surprise turns to blatant bewilderment in an instant. He steadies himself against the doorframe, eyes wide as they take in Thor.

“You—you’re back,” Loki states, almost as a question. “You were not harmed?”

“Brother, I have spoken to the All-father-he has agreed to show you mercy—” Thor cuts off abruptly, and Loki follows his gaze to the dagger that is still clutched in Loki’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

“Thor—”

“Where did you get that, Loki? Answer me. Now.” Thor’s tone has changed in a silvery flash, his expression hard and angry and terrifying. It is a face he has seen only from a distance, and never directed completely at him. It is the expression of a warrior in the heat of battle rage. It is the face of thunder. 

Loki takes a step back, his fingers tightening compulsively around the handle of the blade. “I found it—”

“Do not lie to me, Brother.” Thor grabs the front of his shirt and Loki lashes out in desperation, slashing at Thor’s arm out of reflex. The knife cuts into his flesh, leaving a shallow wound.

Loki’s fingers scrabble uselessly at Thor’s hand as the Thunderer tosses him out into the hallway with a cry of rage. Loki slides across the floor and instantly scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself to get away.

“Thor, let me explain—”

“Where did you get that blade, Loki?”

“The Enchantress gifted it to me,” Loki croaks breathlessly, his chest heaving as Thor takes long strides to reach him again. “But you must understand—I am only using her to regain my power—”

“I trusted you,” Thor roars, charging towards him once more. “You must trust me when I tell you that you mustn’t give in to Amora’s wishes. I have spoken with our Father, and he is willing to show you mercy if you just—”

“Mercy?” Loki chokes out, his words shaky and mixed with nervous laughter. “I will not bow so low to that fool—I will not beg for his false mercy. I will regain my power my way, and I will not be bound by debt to that self-righteous king.”

“If you don’t drop your weapon now and calm down, I’m calling S.H.I.E.L.D. down here, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

Thor and Loki both turn to see Barton standing in the hallway, bow stretched and loaded with an arrow, aimed for Loki. Loki takes advantage of Thor’s distracted state to jump to his feet, the dagger held out in front of him to prevent Thor from coming near.

“Loki, please—” Thor pleads.

“You cannot stop me, Thor—I will not let you. I will not go back—”

“I cannot allow you to wield the Norn stones, Brother. Amora is not to be trusted—”

“Why is that?” Loki asks savagely, his hands trembling and the corners of his mind going black. “You claimed to trust me—you told me you would help—”

“And I will help you. Father is willing to have you a second chance—”

“He lies, Thor,” Loki shouts, throat raw. “It is a trap—a trick. He has seen the past, the future—everything that will or could be, and he must make it so. Even if he does show me mercy, I will be kept in a cage forever—under his control—”

“I said, put the weapon down.”

Clint fires his arrow and Loki lunges towards him with a growl. The arrow pins Loki’s sleeve to the wall, and in his rage, Loki tries to hurl whatever magic energy he has left at the archer. Ice crystals form along the wall where Loki’s hand rests, and he struggles against the arrow’s hold, his skin starting to transform from pale to royal blue.

“Thor, help me restrain him, quick—”

Loki can only writhe desperately as Thor grasps his arms firmly, pinning his hands above his head, and his cries of wrath quickly turn to cries of horror as Clint produces a pair of restrains. The cuffs are secure around his wrists, and as he is dragged back into his room, Loki is reduced to begging and pleading, and he is suddenly no longer in the tower, but imprisoned in his mind, the viper over his head. He can feel the first drop of venom scorch his flesh.

* * *

The screaming has brought him here.

Tony can barely bring himself to enter the room. All he can see are dark shapes—a figure slumped against the wall, soundless. Tony’s heart races and his breath catches and his stomach twists painfully. He cannot move.

“Loki?” Tony calls hesitantly, taking one small step past the threshold of the door. Darkness envelops him. “Knock, knock. It’s your buddy, Tony.”

No response.

Tony slowly nears the bed, he steps hesitant and quiet, afraid to startle the silent god. Tony himself is stunned into silence. Tony dares not turn on the lights. Even in the dimness, he can see that Loki’s wrists have been rubbed raw and bloody by his struggling against the restrains. He has managed to break the chains that bound his ankles, and dislocated a shoulder in his attempt to free his hands.

“Oh, god—what the hell—” Tony murmurs to himself, anger rising. Grasping the high-tech S.H.I.E.L.D. cuffs that are locked securely around Loki’s wrists, Tony tries to pry the contraption open. Loki’s eyes are wide open, but unseeing—reflecting the light from the hallway dully, an unblinking stare.

Tony drops the stubborn device, hands trembling, letting Loki’s arms fall limply. “Where is the key—where the hell is it?”

He doesn’t turn around when he sees the rectangular outline of light of the doorway fill with shadow. He doesn’t need to see who it is. He knows it is Clint.

“We had to. It was that or call S.H.I.E.L.D. He was a threat to himself and everyone in the tower.”

“I don’t care. Just help me get these restrains off him. Now.” When there is no instant springing into action—when the shadow does not move—Tony whirls around. “Help him.” He doesn’t intend to shout, but he does anyway, and his head throbs and his lungs ache from the force of it.

Tony is not aware of time passing or of Barton leaving and returning. He jolts when Barton enters the room and slaps the key into Tony’s outstretched hand. Tony fumbles with the key and the shackles.

“I didn’t know he would have this kind of reaction, Stark,” Clint states. “Or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Just do something useful and get a medic here.”

“Already called for one.”

“Where’s Thor?”

“He left—couldn’t handle it.”

Stark doesn’t listen. He unlocks the cuffs, moves Loki’s limp arms to his sides, and exists the room. He barely makes it to his room before he succumbs to dry heaves.

* * *

Hours have passed. A medic has come and gone. Thor has not dared to enter Loki’s room until now. When he sees the figure that his hunkered in the corner, Thor almost turns around and leaves again. But he mustn’t. He has to speak to him.

“Loki, Brother—” Thor begins. His hope fades when he sees Loki flinch in disdain at the sound of his voice. Hardened anger quickly replaces what little guilt that lingers in the pit of his stomach. “If you refuse to speak, then at least heed my words. I will speak to Father once more, and we will come to an agreement. You will stay here.”

“Yes,” Loki hisses, not meeting Thor’s gaze, “I will sit here quietly and do nothing while I leave my fate in your brutish hands, at the mercy of a weary old fool.”

Thor watches as Loki bows his head, his dark hair, damp with sweat, sticking to his skin and hiding all features but his hint of a smile. Loki lounges back against the wall, arms limp at his sides, his wrists wrapped, back bent. Thor has seen this look before; it is the look of a warrior broken by the horrors of war and too many battles lost to look to Valhalla for validation—hopeless.

“You will stay out of trouble,” Thor corrects gruffly. “The All-father has agreed not to send any more of his warriors to claim you until we have reached a compromise. Stark will lock down the tower.”

Loki laughs softly to himself, his lips barely moving. “And what if you fail? What if your peaceful alternative fails? What then, Thor?”

“We will find another way—”

“There is only blood and vengeance if you fail. You claim to truly care for me, but you and I both know you would not engage Asgard in war on my behalf.” His tone is a plain stating of fact. “It is this, or death. Death to Asgard, or death to me. You know I will not hesitate to cut down anyone who tries to stop me.”

“Loki—”

“Or,” Loki interjects sharply, “we could save time and breath by following Amora’s plan and retrieving the Norn Stones.”

“Never. The stones are too unpredictable. Amora is not to be trusted.”

Thor’s chest aches with his longing to tell Loki of the All-father’s test, of Amora’s involvement. He wonders if perhaps he should inform Loki—warn him.  _I made a promise_. Odin had insisted that Loki make his own choices without influence. Thor can only hope in desperation that locking Loki down in the tower with Stark will be enough to keep him from making the wrong choice.

“What exactly are you afraid of, Thor? That I will wield the stones as weapons—use them to burn Asgard to the ground—to unleash Ragnarok early?” Loki questions with a growl.

“I trust you, Brother. It is the power I do not trust.”

“Is that why you turned your back to me while Barton restrained me—because you trust me so much?”

“You were consumed by madness, Loki.”

“You know, Thor,” Loki continues with a whisper, his tone soft and secretive, and “you truly are a son of Odin. You looked exactly how I remember the All-father looking when he turned his back on me—when he averted his eye in shame and disgust as I was chained under the viper—as I begged for mercy in death.”

“I had no choice—”

“It is strange, amusing even, that I have forgotten so much, yet I remember his expression. I forgot my own name, as the years crawled by, but I remembered the blatant coldness in his face.”

Thor’s throat constricts, and he feels a wave of pain wash over him. “I am sorry.” What a simple phrase that is—and how little it does to express what he feels—the depths of his pain.

“When you were nursing me back to health in the motel, I heard you promise me—” Loki’s words tumble from his lips in a breathless jumble, desperate and unrehearsed and pure, “you promised me ‘never again.’

“You let him hold me down and chain me. I begged you, Thor—”

“I am sorry. I cannot take back what I have done, Loki, but I can try to save you. Let me try to mend these wounds we have created together. You must trust me one last time.”

Loki is silent. Thor resists the overwhelming urge to grab him and shake him and try to force him to listen to him—to listen to the voice of reason and light. Thor does not truly know if he believes the prophecies, but he knows that worlds are at stake, and that they depend on the choices Loki will make.

Loki rises. “If you insist on your mission, at least take this with you.” He produces an amulet from his front shirt pocket, holding it up by its gossamer gold chain.

“What is this?” Thor asks, his brow knitting in confusion, taken aback and tensing as Loki bridged the distance between them with a few strides.

Loki holds the adornment out, slipping it over Thor’s head gently. The amulet rests against his chest, heavy and solid. He steps back, a smile gracing his lips as his eyes flick over Thor, nodding in approval.

“It is an amulet of protection,” Loki explains, as if it is obvious. “It’s a silly thing, really. I have not enchanted it, but mortal lore claims it to carry good luck in battle.”

“I—” Thor is dumbstruck, too shocked to form a coherent sentence. “Why have you—”

“It is nothing. I have had it on my person for a while. I have no need of it.”

“This means—” Thor stops, not daring to utter his hopes for fear of dashing them instantly. This means trust. “I will wear it proudly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the final chapter! Thanks to all who review and give kudos. Expect an update in a few weeks or so. :)


	15. Chapter 15, Part 1

_"Stark?"_

Tony does not remember how he got here.

"Stark?" Natasha's voice breaks through the fog, through the hazy darkness, reaching out to him. "Stark, I need you to tell me exactly what happened." Her tone is not exactly cold, but professional, lacking any warmth associated with familiarity.

Tony is shivering, racked with chills. There is a blanket around his shoulders. His chest is damp and crusted with something, part of his shirt ripped away with sutures. He pulls his knees to his chest, focuses his gaze on his fingers that dig into his thighs—red under his nails, dirt under his nails. He shakes his head, fast and hard, as if that will clear his mind.

"I told you he wasn't ready for questioning, Director," Natasha hisses to the shadow that looms behind her chair. "I don't see the point of keeping him here if we're not charging him with anything."

"Fine. Just get him out of here. Escort him back to Stark Tower. Make sure Pepper knows."

Natasha nods. There is a screeching of metal as she stands abruptly, her chair scooting across the floor of the interrogation room. The lights are too bright. The questions liger in the air around Tony like ghosts, wailing for answers that are locked away in his mind, caged.

_What happened to Thor?_

_Where is Loki?_

_What part did you have in all of this?_

_What happened to you?_

_What's wrong with you… what's wrong with you…what's wrong with you?_

Natasha heads for the door. With a cry, Tony slams both fists against the table. He breathes heavily, chest heaving, eyes wide and stinging. The force of his fists landing knocks over the small Styrofoam cup of now-cold coffee. The liquid rolls across the steel table, running over the edge, dripping. _Drip, drip, drip._

"How long—" Tony sputters, "how long?"

Natasha turns her head, red hair bobbing gently. She looks him in the eyes, expression blank. "It's been forty-eight hours."

Tony buries his face in his hands. He laughs without humor, and for a moment he is left gasping, afraid he'll never stop once he starts. "You have to convince him—you've gotta convince Fury—"

"There's nothing we can do, Stark. I'm sorry."

"Wait—" Tony exclaims, "wait. In exchange for information—if I tell you what happened—"

This time Fury answers, stepping into the florescent light. "I'm listening."

* * *

"JARVIS," Tony states, "prepare to initiate lockdown protocol." He does not bother to face Thor, who stands behind him with arms folded across his chest, before addressing him. "I still don't think this is necessary."

The lights are too bright in the containment room—florescent and pure, shining down on Tony and Thor like searchlights. Tony stares at the enforced glass cage, meant to contain the Hulk in emergencies, and at the distorted figures that are warped and twisted in its reflection. The cage is similar to one that S.H.I.E.L.D. built and housed Loki in years ago—circular, with one heavily reinforced door. Tony searches for something else to look at, but the walls are empty and white and blinding.

"I cannot allow Loki to leave, not when his fate still being decided," Thor explains gruffly.

Tony spins around, mouth forming a hard line of irritation. "Yeah, you keep saying that, big guy, but you don't trust me enough to actually tell me what the hell's going on."

Thor frowns, brow creasing. "You kindness and hospitality have not gone unnoticed, Stark. However—"

"Don't," Tony shakes his head, releasing the humorless laugh that is perched in his throat. "Don't tell me that this has nothing to do with me. Don't tell me that."

"However," Thor continues calmly, "I must ask that you stand down, for Loki's sake. You mean well, Stark, but encouraging him to pursue the Enchantress's aid—encouraging him to keep secrets from me—might have cost him his freedom."

Tony takes a step towards Thor, outraged. "I was trying to help him—"

"I am trying to save him—"

"No," Tony cannot stop himself from shouting. "No. You locked him up when he got too difficult to handle." Even before the last words leave his mouth, Tony regrets them. He buries his regret with his anger and frustration, so that only indifference remains when he sees Thor's expression of hurt.

"I consider you a friend, Stark. Do not test me."

Tony turns away. "Fine. Go back to Asgard. I'll watch him—make sure he doesn't teleport out of here. But I'm not locking him up in here."

"I will do it myself, if you cannot. This room is the safest place for him, where Amora cannot teleport him. I take no more pleasure in this decision than you do, Stark, but it must be done." Thor's voice is unwavering, strong, but his eyes reveal the conflict he feels. Thor does not sound like himself—not how he did when they first met, arrogant, yet slightly humbled, and not how he had only days ago. There is little kindness in his tone, only something akin to desperation—a hard, angry sort of desperation.

"Maybe if you just give him a chance—let him try to solve this his way—"

Thor's threatening glare halts Tony's speech. "Loki's schemes only lead to destruction. It is his nature. I cannot allow him a choice, for it will always end in destruction."

"What ever happened to your belief that Loki could change—that he could choose good?" Tony's stomach constricts, gasping in disbelief. "What the hell happened to the guy who stood on my rooftop like an idiot, trying to persuade a power-crazed god to help us fix his mistakes?"

Wordlessly, Thor turns his back on Tony and exits the room. Tony watches his reflection in the glass prison—watches as Thor's shadow diminishes and vanishes from sight. The silence is too deep.

* * *

Loki cloaks himself in shadow, more with his stealth and skill than the little use of his sorcery his can spare. The door to Thor's dwelling slides shut behind him, bathing Loki in darkness and silence. He stands there for a moment, still and barely breathing, his eyesight adjusting to the sudden change. Loki smiles to himself, for he once found solace in shadows and the quiet, and now it quickens his heart, sets his teeth on edge. Truly, everything has been taken from him.

The amulet, despite the dim lighting, glints on the bedside table where Thor has left it. Thor will never notice it missing.

"This is my gift to you, Thor, and to the All-father. I shall return it to you, but I have need of it first." Calmly, Loki takes the amulet and slips it around his neck. The adornment is heavy, surprisingly so, and it weighs Loki down uncomfortably. He pulls at the chain anxiously before striding across the room.

Loki stands in front of the mirror, but still does not bother to switch on the lights. He can see the outlines of his face in the mirror, reflecting the sunlight that seeps through the thin lines of the window blinds. Closing his eyes, Loki whispers incantations, focusing his limited energy on the amulet.

When he opens his eyes, it is not Loki who he finds staring back at him, but Thor. He takes one step back, startled. Thor's face is a ghost in the mirror—in shadow. Loki has never seen Thor's face twist in such a way—with his teeth bared and his eyes wide, empty.

So Amora was not lying to him about the amulet's power. Loki needed only to think of Thor's visage and the amulet disguised him as such. Forgetting his mission for a moment, Loki chokes out a laugh, stumbling back onto the bed. He wants to speak, to assure himself of something, but he cannot find the words, and only gasps of amusement come forth.

"How—" Loki looks down at himself, at his hands, to find that they still look the same. He flexes his fingers, cranes his neck to examine his body, finding that it is still his. When he looks back at the mirror, however, he sees Thor.

_The amulet only tricks one into seeing another appearance—in the mirror, in a reflection, or in the eyes of everyone else. It cannot trick the wearer._

"No matter," Loki says to himself, standing to his feet. "It will still accomplish its task."

He does not register striding across the room, or kneeling, but suddenly he is reaching for Mjolnir. "I wonder…" Loki hisses curiously, hands trembling as they grasp the handle of the war hammer. Steeling himself, he pulls with all his might. It does not give way.

Wordlessly, Loki straightens up, eyes locked on his hands, switching from his false reflection to his own flesh. He turns to his original task, the small computer that sits unused on Thor's wall. He had Stark show him how to use the basic features of the device some time ago, to ease his boredom, and now that knowledge would become useful.

When Loki presses record, he hides the smirk that twitches at his lips, when he sees Thor reflected in the camera instead of himself. He takes a deep breath.

* * *

Loki exits Thor's room, the amulet returned safely to where Thor had left it, and starts down the corridor. He tenses, halting in his strides, when he hears the faint, dull thuds of boots behind him.

"Hey—"

Loki reels to face Barton, and before he can even finish speaking, Loki has him by the throat and slams him against the wall. Barton's head striking the wall makes a satisfying metallic clang.

"Do not speak to me," Loki hisses savagely, fingers tightening viciously around the archer's neck before releasing him.

Barton rubs at his throat with one hand, holds up the other hand in an act of surrender. "Okay, maybe I deserve an ass kicking," Clint croaks, "but I did what I was trained to do, and I wouldn't have acted differently. I didn't know you'd—" he struggles for the right word, expression and tone blank, "have that reaction."

Loki attempts to steady himself, his breathing ragged. Rage fills him when he realizes that Barton is speaking of chaining him. Disgusted, Loki grabs Barton by the shirt and shoves him violently. "You pity me, do you, mortal?" he snarls, watching as the agent catches himself on the wall. "I have no need of your pity. I would rather endure another lifetime of torment than have to see another wretched, pitying face."

Barton's eyebrows rise. "Got it."

"If you come near me again, I will kill you."

"That, I think Stark would have a problem with. I don't think his mercy extends that far."

Loki barely hears Barton's words through the haze of his anger. "Your life is fleeting—what need do I have of your pity? What could a mortal offer me but servitude? You are nothing." He turns away from Barton.

"I've seen men who live only a few  _fleeting_  decades make more out of their lives than you ever could."

Barton turns just in time to see the dagger flash before his eyes, the silver blade glinting in the white light, before Loki presses it hard against his throat. Loki bares his teeth as Clint struggles against him, as his protests are drowned in the fabric of Loki's shirt, as he viciously grasps Loki's hair.

"Agent Barton," Loki whispers gently, "you were the only one to truly see my face when you served me, and now, as a thorn in my side. It is a pity that no one believes you. My only regret, Barton, is that I will not be there to bare witness to the destruction I will cause when—"

Loki is cut off with an elbow to his face. The blade slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor. Loki recoils, tasting blood as he moistens his lips. He bends to retrieve it.

"I was sorry, but now, not so much. Whatever it is you're planning, it's not gonna happen if you're locked up in a cage." Not waiting for a reply, or expecting one, Barton calls after Loki, "your brother is looking for you."

Seething, Loki continues walking. He reassures himself that soon it will not matter what Barton, or anyone else in this cursed realm thinks or says. After today, nothing will matter but what he will gain from the Norn stones.

* * *

Tony sighs deeply, nursing a glass of scotch. He holds the glass to his face, swishes the amber liquid around and around. He hums Black Sabbath to himself in an attempt to drown out the sound of Thor shouting in the other room, and of Loki's biting, desperate rebuttals. Tony has left the room, unable to listen to anymore of their bickering.

"You will stay here, under Stark's supervision, while I return to Asgard—"

"Yes, Thor, we had agreed on that plan already, but our bargain did not include confining me to a cage and forbidding me from leaving the tower."

"Amora could attempt to reach you. I cannot allow that to happen, Loki, I cannot."

"You claim to trust me, Thor. You always claim—you always say these things—now prove it to me. Do not do this."

"If you truly mean what you say, and you have no intention to pursue your reckless quest for the Norn stones, or Amora's plot, then you should have no qualms about staying in this room until I return."

"I have qualms about being held prisoner."

"You have given me no other choice, Loki."

"Stark will not allow—"

"Stark has no say in this matter."

"I will not forget this, Thor. Do not think that when you get back, and even if you are victorious, that I will forget this. You are a fool if you believe you will not suffer for this."

After Loki's shout, the gods' discussion is too quiet for Tony to hear. There is a real threat in Loki's words. Tony has not thought about what will happen if Thor's father actually agrees to let Loki remain free. Tony has always been one to live in the present, not to think much of the future. Thoughts race sporadically through his head—thoughts about what will happen to Loki, where he'll go. He takes a swig of his drink, props his feet on the armrest of the couch he lies on.

He has not spoken to Loki since the incident with Thor and Barton.  _I'm a coward_ , Tony admits harshly, knowing that his fear had kept him from attending Loki. Not a fear of Loki's instability or the violence he had displayed, but of acknowledging what had happened. He wishes now that he had gone to Loki after he had calmed down—wishes that they had discussed the situation—wishes that he had explained that he had nothing to do with Thor finding out about their plans, and ruining them.

The instant Thor storms from the containment room, Tony springs into action. He rolls gracelessly off the couch, sloshing his drink and hitting his elbow. Tony sets his drink aside, still awkwardly sprawled on the floor, and rubs soothing circles across his forehead to ease the throbbing ache that has stayed with him for days. He is reluctant to stand, content to just stay on the floor for the rest of the day, but he no longer has that luxury.

When Tony enters the containment room once more, Loki is standing just outside the glass prison, his back to Tony. Loki runs his fingers slowly down the surface of the glass. Tony is struck by a memory—the museum, the paintings, when he had confronted Loki for the first time since the attack on New York.

"Magnificent, is it not?" Loki drawls. "Though, this level of security seems a bit excessive to hold a powerless god."

"Powerless?" Tony prods cautiously. "I wouldn't say that. Without magic, sure, but not powerless."

A chuckle rumbles deep in Loki's chest, low and barely audible. "Have you come to play the part of a friend, to coax me into captivity?"

Tony smiles bitterly. "I thought we were past this."

"Past what?"

"Nothing," Tony shakes his head. "You know I'm on your side, right?"

"Does that mean you will defy Thor's orders?" Loki does not wait for Tony to answer, his mind made up already. "I know you will not. You are too _noble_  for that."

"Look, Loki, I don't exactly have a choice here—"

" _Choice_?" Loki snaps. "You speak to me about having no choice, when it was you who put so much significance on my ability to choose. Your words are foolish and empty."

"I don't know how Thor found out about your plans, but I know I'm not the one who told him. But that doesn't matter now. Whatever happens, I'm not letting you go back there. I promised you that—that I would do whatever it takes."

The corners of Loki's lips twitch upward. "Whatever it takes," he repeats. "I think not."

Tony sighs, runs a hand through his matted hair. "Thor will be back within a few hours, tops. Until then, you can chill in here. I'll even bring you coffee of you want."

"Stark—"

"What, no coffee? I won't add salt this time, I promise. Would you prefer stale bread and water?"

"I wish to be left alone." His tone is cold, devoid of any emotion. It is as if everything they have been through in the past few weeks has meant nothing. Suddenly, Tony understands Thor more than he ever has—how it feels to have a thousand memories and moments and meanings erased in a second—to have someone knowingly forget all of it at once.

Tony nods slowly. "Well, I'll be monitoring this room on the security camera. If you change your mind, just shout." There is a pause, and Tony can see something billowing inside of Loki. He can see the mask of indifference sliding, shifting, changing.

"I am not broken, Stark." Loki declares sharply, his voice echoing in the chamber. "You look upon me as if I am weak—as if I have shattered. I despise you for it."

"No," Tony replies, "No, I don't."

"You look upon me with fear, then?"

"Yeah, maybe I am afraid, but not of you. I'm not afraid of you, of who you are. I see your screwed up mind—what all it's done to you, living through what you have—and I'm not afraid of it. I'm—" Tony falters, closing his eyes. He laughs. "I'm—I'm not good at this stuff. It's not you I'm scared of."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know. It scares me that I'm not afraid, I guess. It scares me that I—that I feel this way." He swallows hard, looks away. "I don't think you're weak. Look—you survived, and it had nothing to do with you being a god—sure, your body healing does, but—it's got nothing to do with that. Because I know, immortal or not, I couldn't have survive what you survived. And—and that's not pity. It's not pity or fear of you. It's—it's a different kind of fear."

The memory of the dream—the nightmare—returns to Tony, and he feels that fear growing inside of him.  _You wanna know what I'm afraid of, Loki? I'm afraid of what I'd be willing to give up to save you. That scares me._

Loki stares at Tony, confusion evident in his expression. Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes and smack himself in the face at the level of awkwardness that their conversation has reached.

Wordlessly, Loki enters the glass chamber, not bothering to face the door as it slides closed with a metallic screech. Tony stands there for a moment, half-considering letting him out and forgetting Thor's orders. Part of him knows that imprisoning Loki is the easier option—something that he almost wishes he had done in the first place—out of sight, out of mind.

It would have been too easy for Tony to go along with Fury's demands from the beginning and treating Loki like a prisoner of war.  _No,_ Tony thinks,  _I did the right thing._ Somehow, Tony knows he has made a small, nearly intangible difference in treating Loki like everyone else—not like a pariah and an outcast, not like a bomb waiting to explode. He at least hopes he has made a difference—even if it does not last. A few weeks of companionship hardly make up for the centuries of bitterness and hurt and resentment that had brewed and grown and been nursed with such care in him.

When Tony exits the room, closing the door behind him, he finds Clint waiting for him. Clint leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest, expression blank.

"Be careful."

"You know me, I'm always careful," he deadpans.

"I don't know what, but something's going down."

"Look," Tony huffs, "once you leave for S.H.I.E.L.D., the tower will be on lockdown. Nothing is getting in or out of here until I say so."

He walks away before Clint can reply. Tony strides down the hallway, wanting to catch Thor before he begins his return journey to Asgard. The walls feel closer, like they're closing in. Shadows haunt him—his shadow on the wall, and the invisible shadow of dread that follows him constantly. He quickens his pace, keeping his gaze locked on the elevator door ahead of him.

When Tony catches up to Thor, the Thunder God is on his way to his room. Thor stops walking when he sees Tony coming down the hallway to meet him. Tony tries not to notice the glowering look on Thor's face—a face like thunder.

"Hey—"

"If you've come to bargain for Loki's freedom again, I will not hear it."

Tony scoffs, leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. "Um, actually, I've come to see you off—see if there's anything you need for your trip."

Thor frowns, not out of annoyance this time, but a kind of concern. "I only need mjolnir."

"Right. Of course." Thor turns to enter his room, and Tony follows him inside. "Look, everybody in this freak show has been acting spooked about something. Is there anything I should know? First Loki, then Clint, now you—"

"What did agent Barton say?"

"The usual—something about him sensing danger with his Jedi powers. Why?"

Thor shakes his head. "Tis nothing, I am sure, but—"

"Oh no—"

"Loki did say something quite odd to me."

"What did he say?"

Thor presses the switch on the wall, bathing the room in florescent light. Tony flinches, his head throbbing at the sudden change. He watches as Thor collects Mjolnir from the floor, clasping it to his belt. "He begged me for absolution."

Tony sighs. "You know, Thor, he's not exactly the poster god for sane discussions."

"He told me that I would suffer for imprisoning him."

"Hey, he says that to me all the time. Just the other day, I—" he breaks off, laughing, "I programed JARVIS to play Viking metal every time he entered the room—"

"Do not jest, Stark."

Tony smiles. "Look, Thor, I trust Loki. I know that sounds ridiculous, but he had a chance to off you and he didn't take it. Maybe you should trust him—maybe if you did, he wouldn't be so hostile towards you."

"I do trust him. I trust that he does not wish to kill me, but I do not trust his methods. If there are two paths to reach his goal, I trust that he will always take the one that lends itself to chaos," Thor replies softly. He grabs an amulet from his bedside table, slips it over his neck, and tucks it gently under his armor, on the inside of his tunic. "Against all warning and betrayal and prophecy, I still trust him. Perhaps I should not."

Tony watches from the balcony as Thor climbs into the Quinjet. Once it takes off, Tony heads back inside. "JARVIS, initiate lockdown protocol."

" _Right away, Sir."_

Tony keeps his eyes on the Quinjet as it ascends into the air, flying further and further away, as the titanium plates retract from the building and cover the windows in layers, locking into place with harsh metallic screeches. Soon, all of the windows are covered, not a trace of sunlight visible, the doors locked and reinforced, and Tony is left staring at metal plates where the sky used to be. The helplessness Tony feels is overwhelming, having watched the only hope fly out of sight. Now there is nothing left to do but wait.

* * *

Loki paces the length of his prison, his movements quick and spastic, hands clasped behind his back. He stops, tests the strength of the walls with his fingers, pressing hard against the glass. This imprisonment has torn a hole in his plans, but he has faith that he will get out, one way or another.

He flinches, clapping his hands to his head as a wave of energy surges through him to create a psychic link. Loki grimaces, clenching teeth. "Amora, there has been a delay—"

' _Loki…'_

Loki freezes, breathing shallow. His fingers curl into fists, so tight that his nails bite into the tender flesh of his palms. The voice does not belong to Amora. "It is not every day that the king of Asgard lowers himself enough to address a bastard fugitive. To what do I owe this rare honor,  _Odin All-father_?"

' _Loki, my son, you are on a dangerous path. You must stop this foolish quest for power. I implore you to turn yourself in. Return to Asgard, with Thor, and your sentence will lessen in severity. I offer you a chance at mercy. You would be unwise not to take it.'_

Loki laughs under his breath, a deep, rolling rumbling in his chest that tightens his throat. "Do not call me that," he breathes. "Thor, ever the dutiful son, has told you of my plans, has he?" Not waiting for a reply, Loki continues. "I recall begging for mercy long ago, and receiving none. The time for mercy has passed, and now all of Asgard will suffer for it. You try to reach me now, only after your realm is threatened."

' _Enough of this madness, Loki—'_

"Madness, All-father?" Loki questions savagely. "You have not yet seen my _madness_. You will know madness when you witness your precious kingdom of loyal slaves crumble to ashes around you, and when the golden instrument of your lies,  _Thor_ , is far too broken to fight back. You will see your people slaughtered, your babes captured and raised to hate their kind, and you will taste madness."

' _I see now, despite Thor's insistence, that there is no reasoning with you. So be it.'_

Loki reels around in his cage with a cry, slamming both fists hard against the glass. There is barely a sound from the blow, the glass unyielding. He crumples to his knees, trembling with either rage or fear. He closes his eyes, mind darkening at the edges. He can taste the acrid air of the cave—taste salt on his lips—feels the weight of shackles around his wrists and ankles.

Although Odin's connection has broken, Loki still whispers to the air. "For one moment, I considered leaving my fate in Thor's hands. I considered sparing him yet again. Lingering here would have been a simple task—letting that oaf bargain for my life. Thor could have been spared, All-father. His blood is on your hands now."

His head snaps up as he hears another sound, this time coming from the intercom on the wall outside of the cage. Loki straightens up, returning to himself, the loudness and the brightness of the room shocking his senses. Loki's lips twitch upward against his will. Stark is playing music for him.

* * *

Amora obediently kneels at the foot of the All-father's throne when he summons her. She hides her smile, using her waves of golden hair as a mask that bathes her face in shadows. Odin's expression is grim, defeated. "You summoned me, my king?"

"I fear Loki may be planning an attack against Asgard. He is on the verge of failing our trial. The items you led him to on Midgard, do they contain power that could be wielded against us?"

Amora hesitates. "No, my king—at least, not enough power to pose a threat."

"See that Heimdall knows of this all the same. Thor rides to Asgard this night, and Loki may accompany him. I have much to consider."

Amora stands, spreads her arms and bends one knee in a curtsy of sorts. "As you wish, All-father." She turns on her heel, striding determinedly from the golden hall, boots echoing sharply in her wake. Skurge is waiting for her when she exits the throne room, thick arms folded across his chest.

She waits until the reaches one of the many palace gardens before trying to contact Loki, finding solace and seclusion amidst the lush foliage and greenery. "An item awaits you in Nornheim, Laufeyson. Your quest for power can end tonight if you allow me to aid you once more. Even now, I heard rumors in my exile that the All-father sends more warriors after you. You are running out of time, Trickster."

* * *

Tony empties his glass of alcohol in one swallow, sucking air through his teeth at the burn that warms his throat. He sits at his workstation, feet propped on the desk, a tablet in his lap. The hologram monitor at his desk shows security footage from cameras throughout the tower. He taps at the screen absently, eyes flicking occasionally to the cameras.

"JARVIS, connect me to the intercom."

" _Right away, Sir_."

"Good morning, Vietnam," Tony exclaims into the intercom. "Today I'll be playing a selection of the greatest hits of classic rock. This one goes out to a special Norse god in desperate need of some Zeppelin." He cannot stop himself from smirking, spinning around in his chair. "I should have been a disk jockey, JARVIS."

" _Indeed, Sir."_

"If you say that it's because I like listening to myself talk, I'll unplug you. I'll do it too—remember what happened to Ultron?" Grinning, Tony turns back to the screen. "Hey, Loki—" he trails off abruptly, eyes locked on the Loki as he pounds his fists against the glass.

"Stark," Loki's voice rings out through the intercom, "you must let me out. There is no time to explain."

"What—why?"

"The All-father sends warriors after me while Thor is away. I must leave—"

"What do you mean, leave? Leave as in, secret jet to Argentina, or—"

"I must leave this realm. Nornheim will give me the answers I seek."

Tony rubs his thumb over his beard, mulling the situation over in his mind. "There's no way anybody is getting in the tower on lockdown mode, Asgardian warriors or not. This building has the best, state of the art security system in the world—enough to make Nick Fury jealous. There's nothing to worry about."

"You told me that you would be willing to do anything if it meant aiding me. Do you deny that?"

"I—" Tony stammers, dumbstruck. "Look, I told Thor I would keep you safe here—"

"When your team faces danger, do they turn to Thor for wisdom, or you? Are you not the leader of this team? Is this not your palace, under your command?" Loki's lips curl, sly, and his voice lowers to a whisper that forces Tony to lean closer to the screen to hear. "We are not like Thor, you and I. You know I speak truth."

"Look, I'm usually the first guy to jump into things without question, but—"

"Thor is made blind by his trust. He is in danger. I know now that my suspicions were correct, and that the All-father will hold Thor captive so he can no longer stand between him and myself. If I can regain my power, I can put and end to this madness."

"Okay, hypothetically, assuming this all works, I let you go, you find these super special magic rocks, what then?" Tony asks. "Are you just going to be on the run—Asgard's public enemy number one—forever?"

Loki pauses for a moment, turning his back to the camera. "I always have other options—other plans. You need not worry about that."

Tony hesitates, chews furiously on his bottom lip. "Doesn't this whole plan sound a little risky to you?"

"Is Tony Stark lecturing  _me_  on risk-taking?" Loki glances behind his shoulder, offering a smug smile, green eyes bright.

"Good point." Tony's grin fades. "Honestly, I've been thinking about this myself. You're right—I don't agree with Thor's methods either. I've been tinkering with this gadget of mine—and I think it could track down the location of these magic rocks, in theory."

"Release me then, and we shall be on our way."

"Right. I have some things to take care of first." Loki nods slowly, teeth bared. Tony shuts off the screen, mutes the intercom, and takes a deep breath. He bows his head, running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair. "What am I doing?" he asks himself, tugging at his hair angrily. "What the hell am I doing?"

He sits up, fingers dancing through the air, pulls up a web camera. He presses record, staring hard at the red blinking light before speaking. "If you get this message, I'm probably doing something reckless…"

* * *

Thor feels a jolt—a thrumming, tingling burst of light against his chest as the energy of the Bifrost engulfs him. But this feels different; it feels like a weight in his chest that spreads down the length of his body. There is an instant in which Thor holds his breath, as the dark energy from the newly repaired Bifrost engulfs him, and as his feet touch down on Asgard once more. He breathes deeply the fresh, crisp air that holds a tang from the gushing waters below. He sees Heimhall ahead, a tall, immovable silhouette in the distance.

As Thor begins to walk down the Bifrost, he offers the all-seeing Heimdall a slight smile. He feels the danger before he sees it—feels the prickling sensation, the pace of his heart speeding up. He reaches for Mjolnir at his belt, only to find himself grasping at air. There is a thud as the hammer falls to the Bifrost, and Thor staggers, breathless in his confusion, only now noticing the pain in his hand, and the arrow that protrudes from it.

"Heimdall—" Thor gasps, looking from his bleeding hand to the archers that stand behind the sentinel.

"Halt," Heimdall commands, sword unsheathed and wielded high. The sunlight gleams off of the golden sword and Heimdall's armor, blinding to behold.

"What is the meaning of this? I have come to reason with the All-father—" Thor takes a step forward, only to have the Valkyries load more arrows, bows taunt. Thor holds up his hands in surrender. He can feel the warmth of his blood running down his arm, seeping through his armor, soaking the fabric of his tunic.

"Remain where you stand," A Valkyrie shouts. Thor watches, dumbstruck, as Odin's guards approach him with weapons drawn.

Before Thor can react, the guards seize his arms. "Unhand me," Thor growls, enraged, "by order of your prince and future king—" He struggles against them, easily throwing them off with a swing of his arm, his elbow connecting with a jaw.

"You are no king of mine. I will die before I see you king." Heimdall's deep voice rings out across the Bifrost, clear and loud and unyielding.

Thor recoils, chest aching from the words that twist like a knife in his gut. "Heimdall, have you lost your mind? Why—" Thor is cut off with a cry as energy surges through him, nearly bringing him to his knees. His howl of pain and shock transforms into a roar of anger, and he straightens up, mustering all of his strength. "I know not why you are doing this, my friend," Thor hisses through clenched teeth, "but I did not come here to fight you, and I will go to the All-father peaceably."

* * *

Tony Stark cannot help but wonder in dumbstruck awe at how he has ended up in this situation. It was one thing for him to learn about the existence of other dimensions, and to stare one in the face of death while carrying a missile on his back, but it is an entirely different can of worms to actually travel to one. His boots touch foreign soil.

Once Tony had left the recording for anyone to find in the tower, he had gathered up only the most essential supplies for the journey: the portable tracking device that would find the stones, his portable MK V armor, weather resistant clothing, a coat, several smoke bombs, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. gun. He had then released Loki, who had seemed surprised to find him packed and ready to go. There had been no question in Tony's mind that, if he was going to let Loki go, he was going with him. There had been no argument on Loki's part, though he had become oddly quiet. Tony had disengaged lockdown mode, and they had traveled by Quinjet to the nearest abandoned area to be teleported by Amora.

_"You trust her—the Enchantress?" Tony had asked on the way._

_Loki had laughed. "I do not make the mistake of trusting anyone, Stark. She is useful, and so I will humor her for now. Once I am in possession of the Norn stones, whether or not she is trustworthy will not matter."_

"Loki," Amora greets them as they touch down on Nornheim soil. "You must meet with Karnilla at Nornkeep, for we have much to discuss—"

"I did not come here for your useless artifacts, Amora. I have come to speak with the Norns." Loki answers sharply.

Tony, feeling ignored and on the verge of a breakdown, adds a meek, "yeah. What he said." He takes a moment to gaze at the new environment. The air is dusty and hot, the land dry and reddish in color. There are hills in the distance, and a dark sky with planets and moons unseen by human eyes until now. "Okay," Tony grunts, his knees nearly collapsing under him, "I'm just going to sit right here. Yep—just going to sit down." He puts his head between his knees. "Oh, god—what's going on? Am I in a different universe right now? How am I not dying of alien airborne toxins right now? This was a bad idea."

"To what purpose?" Amora continues, obviously ignoring Stark, "The Norns will tell you the same as I, that your fate is bound—"

"I care not of fate, Amora. The Norns will tell me where I may find the Norn stones."

"Even if you do find them, which is unlikely, they will only activate if they deem the wielder worthy enough. You will not be able to use them."

Tony straightens up, eyes widening. "You neglected to mention that part, buddy."

"Be silent. Come with me, Stark." Loki orders. He turns to Amora. "You will wait for us here, and be ready to open another portal."

Tony stands, grabs his fallen duffle bag from the ground, and allows himself to be dragged roughly by his forearm by Loki. They leave Amora behind, heading toward a small path that is marked by nothing but the indentions of many soles and hoof prints that have trampled over it in all the millennia.

"So," Tony ventures, "these Norn stones—what do they do exactly?"

"The stones grant the wielder the deepest desire of their heart."

Tony laughs, a sharp, hysterical kind of laugh that sucks all the air from his lungs and makes his head spin. "Oh, really? That's—I don't even know where to start with that. What'll it be—an innuendo, or a quip about how that sounds like something from a scifi romance novel?" He laughs again. " _Deepest desire_?"

"These stones hold the greatest power in the nine realms. It is unwise to mock such power."

"Then, your deepest desire is to regain your mojo?"

"Of course."

"And, supposedly, the stones will grant you three wishes if your cause is worthy enough? That makes no sense, from a scientific standpoint, by the way."

"Indeed." Tony is not sure which statement Loki is agreeing to. They walk a ways further before stopping, the only scenery in Nornheim being great, jagged rocks and the mountains in the distance, seeing a small, outcropping of rocks ahead. A great root protrudes from the cracked ground, curled around the cave, out of place.

"There it is," Loki points to the cave. "In that cave lies the well of Urd, Skuld, and Verdandi, the oldest beings in the Nine."

"Be sure to speak loudly."

Loki eyes him curiously. "Do you—"

"Nope. I'm good. I'm staying right here."

"Very well."

* * *

_"Liesmith…"_

_"Sly One…"_

_"Laufeyson…"_

_"Odinson…"_

Loki maintains a guise of cold detachment as the voices of the Norns—ancient beyond comprehension, with words like fire—surround him, sounding so close, yet very far away simultaneously. He recalls tales of the All-father told in hushed tones by a skald or warrior at the great hall, when all but a few had drunk and fought themselves into a stupor—tales of Odin visiting the Norns to gain knowledge. It had been said that the Norns knew all, and designed the fates of all Asgardians before their conception.

They are not so different than Loki had imagined as a youth so easily enraptured by stories. Three old women, if one could call them such a thing, hunkered and huddled by a small, ruined well forged from thick slabs of stone. Lank, long strands of their white hair brush the well as they shuffle slowly around it. They do not look up at him, and their faces are scarred in shadow. Perhaps it is the simplicity of them that truly horrifies—so different from the grandeur of Asgard's golden halls and vastness—as if suspended, released from the burden of time and the progress that accompanies it.

"You know why I have come?" Loki inquires, finding his question startling in the unnatural quiet.

_"Which is it?"_

Loki keeps his expression blank, though their eyes are not on him, and takes a step forward. His boots stir up dust in the air as they drag across the dry ground. "I seek the Norn stones. Tell me where they are hidden, and I will be on my way."

_"Is it Laufeyson, or Odinson?"_

_"It is both."_

_"Neither, methinks."_

Loki's throat constricts around a lump of ire. "You  _will_  tell me where I may find the stones," he fingers twitch and his hands clench tight to stop the tremors.

_"You will find the answer you desire in your own answer—"_

_"Should you be truthful."_

"I have not the time nor the restraint to bother with senseless riddles. I need an answer now—"

" _A wolfs head snarls, a snake swallows its tail, but twilight has not yet fallen. Turn back now, and you will fail. If you do not turn back, you will fail and take another with you, a heart hardened, his nature and yours forgotten, his back forever turned. A blinded eye watches you fail through four. You will find what you need in the place where Fate's hand first touched you."_

Loki closes his eyes, allowing the words to sink in, willing his mind to find meaning in them. He turns swiftly; dust settles on his clothes. "You have my gratitude."

Loki's strides are faster paced than necessary to leave the cave, the dark, and the walls of stone that seemed to be closing in on him. When he steps into the fading light of evening once more, he is irritated to find that the feeling of dread has not left him. The Norn's cryptic words linger in his mind, behind his eyes, lodging at the base of his neck. He dares not think of what they meant, only of the location of the stones. The rest does not matter to him.

Stark is waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the dirt pathway, his bag of weapons and supplies strew at his feet. When Stark sees Loki returning, he instantly stands, offering a forced smile. "Hey, buddy," Stark exclaims, too loud, "can we leave now?"

Loki can trace the imaginary lines in Stark's face, body, and mind—the lines where cracks are forming and stretching and spreading. He is shattering, cracking. It is impossible to look away—whether the sight is too wonderful or horrible to do so, he cannot say. "The stones are in another realm. We must go there."

Amora stands in the same place as before, her arms folded across her chest, eyes bright. "Did you find the answers you sought, Laufeyson?"

"Indeed, Amora," Loki grins, unfriendly. "Take us the realm of cold and darkness." He watches, calm, as two ravens circle overhead. He smiles. Loki knows he does not have much time left, now that he is sure that Amora is on the All-father's side.

The Enchantress nods, brushing golden strands of hair from her face as a breeze sweeps through the barren land. Green sparks of energy surge at her fingertips, which she concentrates into a sphere. Soon, a small portal opens, the threads of reality ripped open like a wound. Her brow glimmers with beads of perspiration. "There. I cannot keep the portal open long."

Loki chances a glance at Stark, whose face is too pale, eyes too wide, before looking to Amora again. "You are not accompanying us? I would have thought you'd like to be present when I conjure the greatest power in the nine realms, and when I begin our vengeance."

She has not heard a word. Loki hides his glee at Amora's expression—at the way she takes a step back, pressing her fingers to her temples. She has heard something, Loki knows. She may well have just received the information of a disturbance in Asgard.

"I—I must leave. I have business to attend to," Amora replies, distracted.

"Of course," Loki purrs.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Stark intrudes, deliberately placing himself between the two sorcerers. "Am I the only one who realizes what a tight schedule we're on here? I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to stare each other down later, you two."

"Why ever did you bring the mortal along, Loki?" Amora asks. "He could easily get in the way—killed, even."

"Standing right here," Stark chimes in.

Loki ignores the comment, turning to face the portal. "You may want to dress warmly," he addresses Stark with a half-smile. "Where we're going, there is eternal winter."

"I kind of figured that part out already—you know, the whole,  _'realm of cold and darkness'_ thing. Very nice introduction, by the way."

Without another moment of hesitation, they step through the portal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long. Part 2 will be up in a week or so, due to a new semester starting. I truly appreciate your comments. Thanks for sticking with me!


	16. Chapter 15, part 2

     The last time the steps to Odin’s throne room had seemed to numerous, had taken so long, had filled him with so much dread, Thor had been but a stubborn, arrogant boy, in trouble for causing mayhem in the court—for arguing with the counsel over something he has forgotten now, that seemed important at the time. This time is different, for there are no gently chiding faces, or the shaking of heads and hidden smiles from the guards and people of the court. This time Thor is met with only silent contempt.

     The thudding of marching boots sound throughout the great halls, a chorus that matches the pace of his heartbeat, the flow of blood from his healing wound. Thor tries to find reason in the madness that has transpired—tries to find an explanation for the hostility. The shock of it has left his mind dull, unfocused. All he can do is walk along side the guards to Odin’s chambers.

      The great gold-gilded doors open wide, and Thor is left to stand, hunched over and breathing heavily, at the foot of his father’s throne. Frigga stands by his side on the stairs, pale-faced and silent. He takes nine steps before kneeling. “What is the meaning of this?” Thor finally asks, unable to stand the All-father’s silence and glazed expression a moment longer. “Father—”

      “Do not mock me with honeyed words.” Odin shakes his head, pained, eyes closing as if ashamed to look upon him. “You denied your title as my son, and have thus given up your right to address me in such a manner. You will be silent.”

     Thor takes a step forward, desperate. “Father—”

     “What have you done with my son?”

     “Forgive me, but I do not understand. Please, Father, you must listen to me—”

     “Mjolnir was found in your possession, stained with Aesir blood. Where is my firstborn? Does he still live?” The All-father roars, Gungnir striking the floor with such force that Thor recoils.

     “Father, have you gone mad? I am your firstborn—”

     “You have failed your trial, Laufeyson. You have committed treason by escaping from your bonds, and you will be returned to your prison to pay for your crimes against the realms.”

      Thor falls to his knees, hot tears spilling over. “Father, I am Thor. I am your son—” Thor’s cries are drowned out as Gungnir crashes to the ground once more, and the golden, gleaming walls of Asgard disintegrate into darkness. The last thing he hears is Frigga’s cry of protest.

* * *

 

     The force of Amora’s energy is nauseating, and Tony stumbles as soon as he and Loki land in the new realm. Tony sucks in a breath, lungs aching, as he is instantly hit with a blast of icy air. He fumbles around in his duffle bag for more layers. He dresses quickly before holding out a spare jacket to Loki. Surprisingly, Loki takes the jacket and dons it over his thin t-shirt.

     “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

      The snow reaches Tony’s knees, soaking through the first layer of fabric on his legs. The temperature is extreme, and Tony knows that he cannot survive in this realm for long without a fire to warm him, despite his layers and layers of cold-resistant clothing and the fur hood over his head, sealing in his body heat. Everything about this place unnerves him—the collapsed towers of ice, the utter, tangible silence, and the feeling of dread and death and a war lost long ago. The place feels haunted—haunted by grief and tragedy and a violent anger that makes Tony’s breath come in short gasps of panic.

      Loki, in contrast, does not appear to be affected by the cold at all. He now wears only a thin black athletic jacket with a hood lined with black furs, and his rather worn leather and cloth trousers. His breath gathers around his mouth as he exhales in a smirk, turning to glace at Tony for a moment. Loki’s smile does not reach his eyes, and there is something far more terrifying about him than the place they trek through.

      “Where are we?” Tony asks through pained gasps. “Wait—do I want to know?”

     “Jotunheim.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. I know where we are now, thanks,” Tony shudders out, nearly collapsing as he sinks suddenly up to his thighs in a patch of snow. “Where is everyone? The locals not friendly?”

     “Most of them are dead, I suspect.”

     “Why—“

      “I murdered their king and tried to destroy their entire race.” Loki bares his teeth in a wolfish grin as the words slip from his tongue with such an odd mixture of pleasure and bitterness that Tony starts. “Those whom survived are most likely in hiding. Pathetic cowards.”

      Tony does collapse this time, letting out a muted cry as his boot catches on an ice patch and his face kisses the frosted ground. He pushes himself onto his elbows, stays there, watching his trembling hands, trying to catch his breath. His heart races and he has to close his eyes to stop the world from spinning around him. “Oh, god—“ he chokes, “oh god—what am I doing—”  

       Tony tenses when he sees Loki hovering over him, cloaking him in shadow. He allows Loki to pull him to his feet. He searches for kindness in the gesture, in the help, but finds only a kind of muted distain at Tony’s panic. Tony cannot help but think that Loki only despises Tony’s weakness because it is a reflection of his own desperation.

      “Thanks,” Tony grunts.

     “Keep moving.”

      They continue to stride through the dense terrain. Once his anxiety subsides somewhat, Tony allows himself to gaze at the pillars and ice, the ancient language and runes and inscriptions that adorn them, and the remnants of buildings and civilization. “This is incredible,” Tony exclaims.

"I mean—I know a crap-ton of science nerds who would trade their Shatner autographs to see this place." 

       “This realm is nothing compared to Asgard. Do not pretend to think it magnificent.” Loki’s tone is bathed in rage, in an anger that makes his shoulders shake and his words tear through his throat in a snarl.

      Silence. For a few long moments, the only sound comes from the distant rumbling of water moving under frozen ground, and the whistle of the wind. “This place—why did you want to destroy it?”

      Loki halts in his tracks, turning to face Tony slowly. His face is hidden in shadow, eyes expressionless holes of black. “You do not know what you ask.”

      “I saw what you did on earth two years ago. Do you think I’ll be surprised?”

       “This realm is home to a race of monsters. Frost giants, they are sometimes called. I wanted to blot them from existence, to ensure that Asgard would be safe.” Loki laughs at himself, mockingly, before adding, “what a fool I was. To think, I once acted out of my desire to please the All-father—an impossible task.”

      That is all the explanation Tony needs. He remembers what Loki is—what his true form is, and he pieces everything together into a grotesque picture of madness and fear.

     Tony eyes the suitcase he holds in one hand, his fingers practically frozen around the handle. “I’d feel a bit better if I was wearing my suit—”

     “We cannot afford to call attention to ourselves.”

     “Remind me to build some stealth armor.” Tony rolls his eyes. “Wait—if you’re a frost giant, can’t you just turn blue like you do and,  _bam_ , instant camo?”  

     Loki glares at him. “Frost giants are literal giants—”

     “You look like a giant to me.” 

     “I am certain most beings are giants to  _you_ ,” Loki retorts. “I have cloaked us in shadow. If any lowly creature dares to venture out of its hiding place, it will find us difficult to see.”

      There is a brief moment of silence. Tony watches in muted horror as a raven soars over their heads, barely visible in the torrent of ice and snow, a blur of black feathers.

      “The Norns—hags—witches—whatever—“ Tony inquires, rubbing his arms furiously for warmth, “what did they say?”

      “They spoke in their usual cryptic rhymes and riddles. They are sure, however, that the stones lie hidden here, in this squalor.”

     “What about your super special destiny? Did they mention that at all?”

     “No.”

      “Look, Loki,” Tony says, noting the flicker of hesitation in Loki’s answer, “you have to make a choice. You can lie down, give up, whatever—go back to being punished for a crime you can barely remember to fulfill some crap prophecy, you can listen to Amora and try to collect these items and the stones, or you can listen to me, and we can say ‘screw you’ to destiny and all that. But you have to make a choice.

      “We can leave right now—you can pull that trick you did to get us here, and we can leave. You can give me more time, and I can help you escape somehow, and we can do this our way—not your father’s messed up way, not Amora’s way—our way.”

      Loki stares at Tony hard, his lips twitching at something between a smile and a grimace. He glances at the snow, strands of dark hair whipping about his gaunt face. “Your way, Stark? It is a prayer, a hopeless mission—“

       “You told me and Thor that what you wanted was to be proven right—was to give in and let yourself play martyr to your own crusade against Odin. You can’t do that—I won’t let you. And I remember, after that brush with Amora, how you—” he pauses, hesitating, “how you stood in the way of Skurge, just—just ready to let him take you out. Don’t—just don’t do that. Don’t check out.”

      “I want freedom.” Loki admits softly, finally looking Tony in the eyes. “After all that I have done—after everything—I know now I cannot have it. Even if I choose to go with you, they will never stop hunting me. If I choose to be imprisoned, at least then it will be my choice to make this time.”

      “So what’s it going to be?” Tony’s voice cracks with hope, with the urgency of their situation, with the lingering dread of his nightmare.

      Suddenly, Loki’s mask of determination and calm fades and shatters, and Loki’s eyes go wide. He looks like a child—lost. “It is far too late now.”

     “What are you—“

      “In truth, Stark, I have already made my choice.” Loki smiles bitterly, taking a step towards

Tony. “Have you not been wondering where Thor is at this moment? You heard my threat to him—and yet you still speak as if you can  _save me—_ as If I need saving.”  

     Loki’s eyes are wide, distant. He stares past Tony. “But I’ve won, Stark—where is my glory? Where is my triumph? I do not feel it—I do not feel anything—” Loki does not address Tony when he speaks, his words meant for someone else. “Asgard will suffer for the All-father’s mistake—his greatest mistake.”

      Tony’s stomach drops. He shakes his head, back and forth, compulsive, erratic. “What did you do? Loki—“

       “That oaf accepted the amulet so willingly, without question, without thought. He was so blinded by my false kindness—clinging to his pathetic delusions. Is that not horribly amusing?” Loki throws back his head and laughs, breathless. “He wore it like armor—like a trophy won in battle. His trust is his undoing.”

      Tony sees red and he lunges forward, white-hot pain welling in his eyes and in his head as his fist meets Loki’s jaw, meets any place he can reach. Pain shoots through his arm but he doesn’t care. Moisture freezes on his face, frozen tracks down his skin.

     “Where is Thor? Where is he?” The words claw their way through Tony’s throat, his vision blurring. “What did you do?”

      Loki lies still on the ground where Tony’s beating put him. He rolls onto his back, gasps morphing into choked, uncontrollable laughter, devoid of humor. “If the amulet performed its task, then Thor should be imprisoned as we speak, in my place like the savior he claims to be. Or maybe the All-father was so angered by seeing my face as it is, healed from the venom, unblemished, that he sent Thor directly to the viper.” He spits blood, his teeth stained red, tainting pure snow and ice.

      Loki’s laughter subsides into screams of rage, and he claws at his scalp, pulls at his hair. “Thor—“ he hisses to the ground, “you idiot—I warned you not to trust me.” His voice is riddled with fear.

      “He saved your life. He risked everything for you. He gave you everything—“ Tony’s voice is hoarse, raw from his shouting, rage twisting his gut. “You don’t deserve what he’s done for you—you don’t deserve mercy—“

      Loki straightens up. “And finally you see me for what I truly am. After all your talk of redemption and grace, now you see the monster and you wonder how you ever believed in him. Now your hypocrisy shows.”

      Tony kicks at the ice furiously, throws down his suitcase. The metal case opens with a metallic crack, and his suit begins to whirr to life, powering up on its own. He half-considers putting on the suit, letting the metal engulf him so that he can hide behind a mask of cold indifference, so he can escape, fly away, leave this cursed place.

     “Why did you bring me here? What part do I play in all of this? Was I part of your act, or did you just want someone to gloat to?” Tony asks.

      Loki’s expression is pained. “Is it difficult to believe that I merely desired your company—that I have no intention of harming you?”

      “I don’t know—“ Tony admits, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know.”

     “Perhaps I wanted you to convince me—to sway me from my path.”

      Tony fights every instinct—every raw nerve—every emotion he has to keep himself from screaming more, to keep himself from donning the suit and attacking with every ounce of energy he has left. In that instant he truly loathes himself, because despite all that Loki has done, despite his wrong choices, he still feels something for this broken, deranged man. The emotion is dark—born of selfish desire.

      “If we act now, we can try to reverse this. We can still save Thor.”

     “Why should I?” Loki asks sharply, his ferocity doing little to hide his hesitancy. “Thor chose his fate when he trusted the All-father over me—when he locked me away. The All-father will surely suffer the most from Thor’s pain, and he will taste but an ounce of the agony he has inflicted on me—he will taste my  _mercy_. For this is my mercy to him, and it is as cruel as his mercy to me.” The words tumble from Loki’s lips in one breath, and he pauses before whispering, “It’s too late.”

      “No, it’s not, okay? It’s not too late—not for you, not for anyone—“

      Loki’s expression is one of pure confusion. What a wretched creature Loki is, Tony thinks, so baffled by forgiveness. “Stark—“

      Tony snatches up the case, closing the latch. “Shut up. We have to find these stones, get your mojo back, and fix everything you’ve broken.”

       The sky explodes with light and electricity with a crack, the Bifrost opening and shining down onto the surface of Jotunhiem like a holy light. The shapes are too far away to make out, but Tony knows instantly what their mission is.

     “Run,” Tony demands, struggling to free himself from the deep snowdrift.

     Loki hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking off. His steps are lithe and quick across the ice, skillful and silent.

     “Oh, hell,” Tony mutters. “No point in not drawing attention to ourselves now.” He hurriedly opens the case that contains his suit and lets the technology envelope his body. When the helmet closes over his head, and he sees the world through a screen of numbers, he is surprised to find that everything around him stays the same. The world is no easier to look at. The situation is no easier to solve. Loki is no less important to him. Disappointment floods him.

    Tony lifts off from the ground, but not too high as to lose sight of Loki in the raging snowstorm. “ _JARVIS,_ we need a place to hide. Take us off course of the Norn stones for now.”

      _"There is a cave approximately twelve meters to your right."_ Tony’s screen locks on a distant outcropping of jagged rocks. 

     “Loki,” Tony shouts, “follow me.”

* * *

 

    

     When Steve returns to New York City after weeks of undercover work for S.H.I.E.L.D, the first thing he does is buy three American hotdogs from a vender. His second destination is Stark Tower. He half expects the building to be in shambles, what with Loki still lurking around the place, and Tony refusing to release him to S.H.I.E.L.D. or Asgardian custody, But the tower still stands. It is, however, eerily quiet and empty. 

     After riding the elevator to the main floor, Steve peers cautiously around the living room area, the wet bar, and Tony’s various labs. He finds no one.

      _No sign of the team…or of Loki._

      “At least I’ll have some peace and quiet,” Steve murmurs to himself. He sighs, shrugging off his jacket and tossing his duffle bag to the floor. He sits on one of the leather couches, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply.

      Steve sits up. “ _JARVIS,_ " he addresses the ceiling reluctantly. "Where’s Stark, and when will he be back?"

      _"I cannot disclose his location. Mr. Stark left with war criminal Loki Laufeyson last night. Mr. Stark left an urgent video message, with the requested that it be accessed only by Dr. Banner."_

Steve raises his eyebrows, frowning. “I sure hope you haven’t gotten yourself into trouble again, Tony,” Steve whispers under his breath.

     Striding across the room to one of the computer ports, Steve taps uselessly at one of the tablets. He manages to access the video file Stark left, but, sure enough, it requires a password that Steve is sure only Bruce knows.

     “JARVIS,” Steve states, “please activate the tracking system in the Avengers communication devices. Get me a location on Stark, Dr. Banner, and Thor.”

     Steve waits as the computer calculates his command, holding his breath unconsciously. He drums his fingers on the armrest, propping his feet on the glass coffee table.

      _"I am unable to locate Mr. Stark. Thor Odinson has turned off all communication devices. Dr. Banner’s location is approximately two hours North of the city."_

     Steve grimaces. JARVIS has always been able to locate a signal before. He wonders what it means for Tony and Thor. 

_Looks like I’m heading out again…_

     “JARVIS, have a car ready for me to drive to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.” Steve snatches a tablet and his leather jacket from the back of the couch, hastily shrugs it on, and heads for the elevator.  

     He dials Bruce’s number into his cellphone once he reaches the bottom floor. He used to dislike touchscreens. Steve had a simple flip phone that he had been getting used to, but Stark had given him the new one, saying that his old phone was for the elderly.

       _"I refuse to be seen with you if you use that phone. You’re a damn Avenger, Cap. If you’re friends with Tony Stark, you need a decent phone. I’m serious—I’ll pretend I don’t know you. You’re an imposter. Who’s that loser with the dumb phone? I don’t know, but he’s wearing Captain America’s flashy outfit," Tony had said with a smirk._

    _He had taken the device from Steve’s hand and tossed it across the room carelessly when Steve had politely rejected Tony’s gift of a Stark phone. The cell phone had remained intact and unharmed._

_‘‘These phones are indestructible. I should make a suit out of them.”_

    Steve smiles slightly at the memory, despite the urgency of the situation. There is a dial tone and then a click. He holds his breath.

     “Captain Rogers,” Bruce’s voice is calming and static over the other line. “I hope S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t using you as an errand boy. I already told them I wasn’t interested in their projects—”

     “No, Dr. banner,” Steve interjects, “it’s nothing like that. It’s about Stark. I think he might be in trouble.”

     There is a pause. “What kind of trouble?”

    “I wish I knew. He left a top priority video message for you. I hate to bother you, and I’d watch it myself, but it’s password protected.” Steve takes a breath. “Would you happen to know the password?”

     “Sounds serious. Is anyone else in the tower?” Steve can hear the question Bruce will not say directly in his tone. He wants to know if it involves Loki.

    “Not that I could tell. Loki and Thor are gone. JARVIS couldn’t locate either of them.”

    “Now, why would that be?”

    “Beats me.”

    “The uh—the only reason that would happen is if they’re somehow out of range of the tracking device, or if something’s interfering with it. “

    “Interfering?”

    “Mhmm. Certain energies can interfere with technology.” 

    “Like magic?”   

     Bruce doesn’t answer. “Do you have a computer with you?”

    “Yeah. I have the video message up. I just need the password.”

     “Um,” Bruce falters, “I know the password, but I’m not sure I should—”

      Steve sighs deeply. “Just say it, Dr. Banner. This is important.”

     “It’s, uh—it’s: Captain AARP. All caps.” Bruce clears his throat.

     “I see,” Steve states wryly. 

    “To be fair, Tony thought of it a year ago, at 3 a.m. We were sleep deprived.” 

    “Let’s see if this works.” Steve carefully types in the letters and hits enter. A video screen pops up, a play button in the center.  

    “Thank you for your time, Dr. Banner.”  

    “Let me know how it all pans out.”

    “Will do.” He hangs up. He hesitates only slightly before pressing the play button.

      _'If you get this message, I'm probably doing something reckless. Hey, Bruce,' Tony says, 'or anyone who's watching this—good job guessing the password, by the way, or hacking your way in. Anyway, if you're watching this, I'm not in New York. In fact, funnily enough, I'm probably not in this universe. But, you've always known that I'm_ out of this world _. Long story short—I’m with Loki, in another realm.”_

     Steve’s eyes widen. He grips the sides of the tablet until the screen nearly cracks under the pressure. A forced smile is plastered on Tony’s face, but his dull, tired eyes betray his true expression. He’s scared.

_‘I know you’re probably calling me an idiot right about now, but I had no other options. Look, to cut to the chase and skip the exposition, if I’m not back within twelve hours, contact Thor. Thor can get you to Asgard. Thor will know where to find me.’_

"Tony, no," Steve mutters _._

_‘Don’t contact S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m probably fine. Loki and I will be back once we take care of this little problem. I’ll be fine. I trust him. Look, just tell Pepper not to worry—tell her I’ll be back soon.’_

     The message cuts out and the screen fades to black. Steve stands just outside of the elevator, tablet in one hand, cell phone in the other. He glances at the door to the underground garage, then back at the elevator. He sighs. “I’m giving you two hours, Tony. If you’re not back in two hours, I’m calling S.H.I.E.L.D.”

* * *

           Tony touches down just outside of the mouth of the cave, arms swinging as he tries to remain standing, the icy ground slick, repulsors flaring and spraying snow. He stumbles forward with a cry, catching himself on a jutting rock formation. He spins around, locking his screen on Loki, a dark blur in the distance.

     “C’mon,” Tony hisses, “we can make it.” He wants to believe his words—needs to believe them. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, focuses on breathing—focuses on the present situation. If he thinks about Thor, or Loki’s betrayal, or the Asgardian warriors that are surely after them, or the creatures that lurk in the shadows of this realm, waiting to strike, Tony will break.  He will break and he will shut down and he will not be able to fight.

     Tony thinks about the message he left for Bruce—thinks he should have said more to his team, to Pepper, to leave them with something meaningful. He thinks about Thor, about their arguments, about how Tony should have just listened for once in his damn life. Maybe he would take it all back—trusting Loki, forging this strange bond between them. He’s not sure why, but he knows that he would not have changed a single detail.

    He thinks about myths and legends and wants to burn them all, wipe them out from existence—destroy anything that tells of prophecy and death and mistletoe and outsiders. Let them burn. He thinks about Jotunheim, broken and crumbling, and how it is a reflection everything happening. It is cold and dark and falling apart. He thinks about his dream—his nightmare—and how he had sworn to himself that, in that feverish moment of horror, he would not have to give up everything to win, to save Loki, to keep whatever relationship they had. Now he thinks that he might have to—have to give up everything—and that maybe he already has. 

     “Get down. I will conceal us in shadow.”

     Tony starts at Loki’s voice. He had not noticed Loki slip past him. Tony nods, wordlessly retreating into the narrow passage of rock. He can barely squeeze through the tunnel in his suit, and he feels the metal scraping and grinding against the walls of the cave, sending waves of panic through him. His body grows hot, mind blank.

   “JARVIS, get me out of this suit—” Tony grunts. His breath returns to him once he hears the metallic clicking of his armor retracting, and once his faceplate falls. The cold is biting, but a welcome, stinging return to clarity. There is a small clearing inside the depths of the rocky formation, just large enough for several people to sit comfortably. The sounds of the storm outside are softened in the cave, the icy wind blocked. 

      Tony half sits, half collapses to the floor of the cave, tossing his duffle bag and briefcase to the ground. He groans, running his fingers hard over his face, as if to wipe away the shock that lingers there. “Who were they?” Tony asks, words muffled behind his hands. “Asgardians?”

      Loki lowers himself to the ground wordlessly, features hidden in the darkness of the cave, eyes expressionless hollows. “Why should we cower here?” he asks, voice sharp and bellowing in the silence of the cave. He reaches into the folds of his shirt, producing a silver dagger. He twirls the blade lightly in one hand. “We have nothing to fear.”

     Tony frowns, not answering. He rummages through his bag. “You know,” he murmurs absently, “I really want a cheeseburger right now.” Sighing, Tony pries at the packaging of a granola bar with trembling fingers, then with his teeth. “I hate these things—they’re gross. Want one? Have one.”

     Loki deftly catches the granola bar as Tony throws it to him. He fiddles with the wrapper, with no obvious intention of eating it. “Why?” he asks, quiet.

     “Because I brought food enough for two, and we need to keep our strength up,” Tony replies, playing dumb. He knows what Loki means—he knows that Loki is asking  _why_ is he still helping him. Tony is not sure he even knows the answer himself.

     “You could have abandoned me, after discovering the truth, after what I have wrought,” Loki whispers. “Why didn’t you?”

     “It doesn’t matter,” Tony snaps. “Look, I promised I would help you, no matter what. Whatever bond we have—whatever the hell this is—that doesn’t change. I don’t want it to change. Honestly, my first reaction was to leave you—to let you pay for your mistakes—but I couldn’t. I hate myself for this. I hate that I can’t do what I know Cap, Clint, or Natasha would do in my place. I hate it, and I wish I could change that.” The words escape his lips in a single breath, tumbling out unbidden and unfiltered, leaving him aching, with stinging eyes and lungs.

      Tony remembers with a bitter smile, months ago, when he and Steve had been contemplating the aftermath of the museum fiasco, and Tony had claimed that Thor was an idiot for sheltering Loki.

 _“But Thor’s not like you.”_  Steve had said.

      _“No. He’s not.”_  Tony had snorted bitterly. He had taken it as an insult, but also as a fact.  _“No, you’re right. Thor’s naïve, gullible, too forgiving—not like me at all.”_

     There had been a point during those early days where Tony had wished to be like Thor—with that level of forgiveness—the willingness and selflessness to nurse a traitor back to health. But he had also thought Thor an idiot for being the way he was. That level of caring had scared him—terrified him—and it still does. He thinks his words are humorous now that the tables have turned, now that he understands.  _I’m not like Thor…not even now._

      Loki is silent. Tony feels that familiar warmth of anger rising in his chest, constricting. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

      “You’re weak, Stark. A true  _hero_ , as your teammates like to call themselves, would have ended me, without question or thought of history. You are weak.”

     “Weak like Thor? He’s done the same.” Tony replies. “So that’s it, then—in your mind I’m no different from Thor? Do you view me with as much contempt?”

     This gives Loki pause. “I was truthful, Stark, when I claimed that you and I are not like Thor. Thor’s hopeless crusade to  _save_ me—to show me mercy—was born only out of selfish desire to reclaim the shadow of a brother who bowed before him, a boyhood that never existed. Thor’s motivations, however pure he thought them to be, were akin to a spoiled child’s quest to control and cage his favorite runaway beast.

    “You, however, offered to assist me when you had nothing to gain from it—when you did not know me. It may have been out of pity, or some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, but it was different. In all the millennia, Thor alone has shown me that level of concern, until you, Stark.”

     Tony swallows hard, feeling a lump of some emotion forming. He watches as Loki silently unwraps his granola bar and takes a hesitant nibble. Tony clears his throat. “You’re wrong, you know,” he says, “about  _Thor_.” The name hurts in his mouth, makes his teeth ache, his gut twist. He cannot think about where Thor could be at the moment—the suffering he may be enduring—and how he got there.

     He can hear the irritation in Loki’s voice, though he cannot see his face. “How so?”

     “Thor may go about it the wrong way, but he cares for you, deeply—”

     “He cares for the illusion of me—of who he believed me to be—”

    “He’s always forgiven you, always tried to fight for you—”

    “Not always,” Loki hisses darkly. “Not during our youth. Not until centuries after I had been chained under the viper, when I was no longer coherent enough to protest or remember myself. Not now. He will not forgive me for this, Stark.”

    “He will. It may take time, but—”

    “He will not,” Loki interrupts, a bitter smile in his tone. “His heart is hardened, his back turned on me forever. He will not show mercy now. I suppose I have finally won then, haven’t I?”

    Silence engulfs them.

     Tony clears his throat, fiddles with his tech. “Something is interfering with this damn thing,” Tony grimaces. He taps at the tracking device on his wrist. “JARVIS, reroute us to the location of the nearest magical energy signature.” Tony watches as several red dots appear on the screen. He turns back to Loki. “I calculated the energy signature from the Snaptun stone, and the known signatures from that casket Amora stole from S.H.I.E.L.D., and managed to locate similar energies throughout the area. If we’re lucky, this will lead us directly to the Norn stones. Pretty smart, huh?”

     Loki stands, crouching somewhat in the small space. “We’re wasting time we do not have.”

     “Yeah. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of caves,” Tony nods, gathering his supplies. He pockets several smoke bombs, just incase they come across any locals, or angry Asgardian warriors, though he decides to leave the gun in his bag for now. “Send me some postcards when this is all over, okay, Frosty?”

    “What?”

    “When you get your mojo back and disappear, don’t forget to drop by the tower every now and then. Surprise me.” 

     Tony can see Loki’s shining teeth bared, his eyes reflecting the light of his arc reactor. “I may take you up on that offer, Stark.”

* * *

      _How fitting_.

     Loki’s breath comes in short gasps, visible in the winter air, curling around his lips like dragon smoke. He exhales in a grin that contains more gall than mirth. His boots touch ancient, sacred ground in a temple forged from ice and stone and the rage of a broken people. There are runes carved into the walls, patterns of stone on the floor, and a pedestal in the middle of the room. The temple is in ruins, the ceiling caved in, the walls cracked.

     “The energy signature leads here,” Stark calls out, too busy fussing with his technology to notice the temple. “But,” he continues, “there are several other hits around this area, so any one of them could be—”

    “This is it,” Loki declares softly. Everything is tainted blue and dark in the dim light, reflecting off of temple walls, staining skin. Loki crouches, presses his hand to the stone floor, tracing cracks and lines in the floor with his fingers. Frost dusts his fingertips.  

     “How do you know?”

    “I was abandoned here as an infant, in this very temple,” Loki replies, voice hollow and foreign to him. He chuckles to himself, shocked by the hurt that fills his chest. It is not like Loki to believe something without proof. He cannot be certain that this is the temple where Odin found him, cradled him—where the hands of Fate had saved him. “The Norn stones are here.”

     He allows himself a moment, fleeting and haunted, to mourn the babe that was discarded and forgotten by a father he never knew, and a culture deprived from him that he never cared to know.  Loki senses Stark standing over him, a warm body blocking the icy breeze. He is grateful for the company. Loki rises to his feet, features blank.

     There is a gasp from Stark, and Loki turns. Stark approaches the altar, stepping over rubble. “The energy reading on this place is insane,” Stark gapes. “You know, I’m no expert,” Stark urges, “but I’m betting those rocks over there are your golden ticket.”

    “How remarkable,” Loki breathes, a laugh building in his throat, following Stark’s gaze, “that the most powerful weapons in all the nine realms, should be kept in this desolate, cursed place, ripe for any fool to wield. But no one found them here—no one would look here, where relics are forsaken, left to rot.”

     Loki strides across the temple, eyes locked on the stones. The stones are small and smooth, with ancient runes, words of power, carved into their surface. His hands hover over the Norn stones. He can feel the energy of them, the raw power—can taste it—his fingers tremble from the rushing surge of it.  _How easy it would be…to watch Asgard burn…_

    “Loki,” Stark snaps, shaking Loki from his reverie, “we have to go. JARVISis picking up other life forms in the area.”  

    “Silence. I must concentrate,” Loki spits back. He takes one stone in his hand, closes his eyes, focuses. He can feel the energy, as if it is trapped behind a wall, kept from him, just out of reach. He laughs, shoulders slumping, dark strands of hair sticking to his sweat-soaked skin.

     “Loki, what—”

    Loki sucks in a breath, lungs aching. “All of this—everything I have done to reach this place—it was all for naught.” He reels around, strikes out wildly, his boot connecting with rubble, sending dust and frost in all directions. “Do you hear me, Stark? It was for nothing. Thor’s sacrifice was in vain. There is nothing.”

    “No,” Loki hears Stark whisper. “No. There has to be some way to trigger a reaction. If we could just—”

    Loki does not hear Stark over the rage—the roaring. All he can see is red—red like pain, like venom, red like Thor. All he can see is himself as Thor in the mirror, and Mjolnir resisting his grasp, not fooled by his disguise. He thinks of how the stones have been kept in the temple, safe, unused, forgotten—how, even if a Jotun did find them, he might not be able to use them—how Loki is unable to wield them. He is not worthy. He laughs again, throwing his head back.

     Loki hears the clinking of weapons, of swords unsheathed, before he sees them. He swings around, dagger in hand, and throws the blade with all his might. There is a whistle as the blade slices through the air, a glint of sliver like lightning.

    Amora smirks, catching the dagger midair with her sorcery. The blade drops to the snow. Royal Asgardian four guards surround her, spears held high. “Surrender now, Sly One,” she shouts over the storm, blonde hair whipping across her face in the wind. She is draped in thick white furs, her skin flushed from the cold.

     Loki sees Stark reaching for his suit in his peripheral vision. He tenses, taking a fighting stance. “Careful, Amora,” he hisses. “The Norn stones’ power belongs to me now.”

     This gives the Enchantress pause. “What have you done with Thor, Laufeyson?”

    Loki cocks his head. “You mean that you do not know?” he asks savagely. “Thor is chained under the viper, in my place, as we speak—”

    “Lies. That was an illusion you cast—a clone—”

    “No,” Loki drawls, savoring. “Thor was the illusion, shrouded by the very amulet you gifted to me to trick me. Your futile stratagem, whatever the intention was, has backfired.”

     Loki does not miss the way Amora’s eyes widen. “You would not—”

    “You wound me, Amora,” Loki exclaims with mock hurt. He spreads his arms wide, as if in welcome. “Was it not you who claimed that I would singlehandedly unleash Ragnarok on Asgard? And yet you question this?” He smiles. “Your words betray you, Amora. It would seem that the harming of Thor is a darker fate to you than the Twilight of the Gods.”

     All heads turn as a roar echoes through the ruins from afar. The guards tense, holding their spears in a fighting stance. “Frost Giants,” one of them whispers, the words hateful on his lips.

     “Go. Guard the area. I will detain Laufeyson,” Amora replies, energy engulfing her fingertips.

     Loki’s lips part to reply, but the words die in his throat as the deep, rumbling roar of thunder shakes the ground beneath them, showering them with ice crystals from above. Loki looks to Stark, and their eyes meet for a split second before the lightning strikes.

* * *

     Tony is knocked to the ground as a great force crashes through the temple, cracking ice pillars, sending ancient walls crumbling to dust. He dives to the ground, just barely escaping being crushed by a chunk of ice that smashes beside him, ice flecks scattering and pelting him like bullets. He cries out, scrambling to his feet, eyes wide with panic. Loki is gone.

    Amora still stands, clutching her head as if having taken a blow to it. She hisses, stepping back. “What sorcery—”

     “That wasn’t Loki,” Tony interjects, stumbling over blocks of ice and jagged rock. There is a giant crater in the ground, a hole in the temple wall, and a deep trail in the snow outside, as if a meteor has bulldozed through it. He picks up his case. “What the hell?” Tony mutters, dazed. The pieces click into place, and Tony takes off in a run to the opening.

    “No,” he shouts, throat striped raw from the urgency of it, running into the clearing of snow. “ _Thor_ ,  _stop_.” He sees the glint of Mjolnir as Thor raises it high, and then hears a strangled yell as it pounds against the figure caught under him. He reaches for his suit. “Don’t—”

     “You will not interfere, mortal,” Amora hisses, grabbing the hood of Tony’s jacket and throwing him easily across the icy ground.  

* * *

 

      Death to Loki is a kind of floating—a falling, a gentle letting go, a decision made in an instant when imploring eyes meet a disappointed gaze. It is falling endlessly through a black hole. Yet, he survived. His punishment was a different kind of death—the death of the mind and soul, but not the body. It is screaming until venom destroys soft flesh, and no one is listening anyway, and he forgets his name and who he is and who Thor is. Yet, he lived. This is different. When he feels Mjolnir connect with his chest, all of the air leaves his body and fire shoots through him and he can hear and feel the cracking of his ribs and can taste metal. It feels real—not like falling and not like forgetting.

    He cannot cry out. The shock is too great, the pain too complete. Loki hardly registers what happened—the snow under his body, the towering figure above him. He shudders, eyes wide, staring into a scarred face. Loki feels something rise in his chest—fear, a cold laugh, a shout of horror—but nothing comes forth for a few slow seconds.

      “Give—give me a chance to explain—” Loki gasps.

     “You have had a thousand chances. The time for chances is over. After everything—” Thor whispers, gruff. “After all that we have been through, after all I have sacrificed to save you—still you betray me.”

     Loki closes his eyes against Thor’s face—the twisted, slowly healing burns of venom. He reaches out, tries to pull himself away in a involuntary move of self-preservation, adrenalin pumping. “It—it is my nature,” Loki chokes out around a yelp of pain. “Is t-that not what your cruel friends and loyal citizens have always t-told you? They warned you of this day.”

    Loki is yanked from the ground by the front of his shirt, vision going black as a wave of agony washes through his chest. Thor throws him to the ground again with a growl of rage. He feels hot tears spill over his face, and he is not sure to whom they belong. “It seems I have finally broken you, God of Thunder.”  

      “Silence. I will speak and you will listen,” Thor spits. “I have experienced but a fraction of your pain—Father’s spurning of me—the venom’s torture—”

    “Am I supposed to congratulate you? Do you expect me to believe that you have had a sudden change of heart—that you finally understand your dark-hearted, Jotun-blooded monster of a brother?” Loki manages to laugh at the price of more pain, thinking quickly. “If you still object to sentencing me to my fate, despite what I have done to you, why not kill me?” He takes a shuttering breath, preparing himself.

      “They will loath you—your people. Once Odin falls—and he will fall soon, I think—you will be made king. If you believe that your citizens will forget your betrayal of them to save the deceiver and wretch of Asgard, when you could have prevented Ragnarok by slaying him, then you are a fool. They will rise up if they have to—do anything to rid the throne of a traitor. I know this better than most.”

     Thor points Mjolnir at Loki’s chest again, breathing hard, his face a mask of hurt. Loki can barely bring himself to look at him, knowing that Thor’s blemished skin will be cemented to his memory, and yet, he also feels compelled to drink in the image. “I should take your life, for the good of Asgard. But, as you have repeatedly told me over the millennia, I care more for my wants than for the good of Asgard.”

     Loki’s fingers curl around a shard of ice, the edges so sharp he can feel it bite into the numb skin of his palm. “The—the stones would not yield to me, Brother,” Loki whispers, voice hoarse. “I thought if I could just harness their power that I could escape—no matter what I had to do to get an oaf like you out of my way. That mortal man—the one whom I murdered—he told me once that I lacked conviction. The stones saw that as well. But I always have plans, Thor—I always have another way out.”  He lets out a yell before swinging his arm forward and slamming the dagger of ice home. Thor shouts as the blade penetrates his leg, dropping to his knees in the snow.

    Loki bolts upright, nearly losing consciousness at the outcry of his wounds. His boot connects with Thor’s jaw, sprawling him on his back. Loki gasps, clutching at his broken ribs with one hand. “Get up, Thor. One last battle—a fitting end, I think.”

     Loki is thrown back to the ground and Thor rears up, knocking him over with a powerful charge. Thor’s weigh crushes him. Thor’s hands close around Loki’s neck, smothering his mirthless laugh. Mjolnir hovers over him, ready to come crashing down—to break him completely.

      Loki manages to unleash a wet sounding cry, soft, muted. Thor’s shoulders tremble. Powdery white flecks of ice stick to his beard, to his red face. Thor hesitates.

     “Would you believe,” Loki shudders out, “that this was my intention from the start? To incur your wrath—to die by your hands so that I would not rot in humiliation in that cursed place? ” Not waiting for an answer, or expecting one, he continues. “No,” he muses, “that would be too elaborate—too uncertain. In truth, I had intended to distract you with your prison in order to obtain the stones—to punish Father, to dull his favorite instrument. Perhaps it was always in the back of my mind. I can feel it now, a sharp pain.”

      He hears Thor say something, but he cannot make it out. Everything is blurred and dizzy and too bright. Loki feels safe for the first time since his fall from the Bifrost.

     “What are you asking of me, Loki?”

     “Fulfill your grand destiny, Thor. Slay the monster. Let me die. Let me end this my way, by my choice.”

    “To take your life would be a mercy. I know how you  _despise_  mercy.”

    “You came here to kill me, yes?”

    “I was driven mad by my rage—”

    “Your task is half-way completed, Thor. If you leave me here, I will die slowly from these wounds you’ve inflicted already—”

     “No—”

    ”Listen to me, Thor. For once in your life, listen to me—”

    “What of Stark?”

    The name gives Loki pause. He takes a long, laborious breath, closing his eyes. “Stark must not know of this. He must believe that I fought and lost. He must not know I made this deal with you. He will forget, in time.”  

     “This is truly what you want?”

     Without pause, Loki answers, “let’s make it convincing, shall we?”  

* * *

     Tony struggles to stand, breath coming in short gasps of pain. He twists around frantically, breaking into a sprint towards Thor and Loki. They are two black shapes in the darkness, featureless and distant. He falls to his knees, screaming as energy engulfs his body and brings him down. His head hits the ice hard. 

    “You cannot possibly hope to fight me, mortal. You cannot hope to save Loki Laufeyson—the monster who will bring Ragnarok—who betrayed the only fool who ever cared for him?”

    Tony strains to turn his head to face Amora, who stands over his crumpled form, hands on her hips, her blonde hair whipping in the frigid air. He huffs, stretching out his hand to the horizon, to the figures fighting. “Not the only fool,” Tony croaks out. 

     Amora frowns. “What?”

     “Thor’s not the only one who ever cared.”

    “You claim to care for him? Your devotion will earn you nothing.” The Enchantress throws back her head, laughing. “And what did caring ever get Thor, mortal? It tore him apart—tore him away from those who would return his love. Thor’s love was wasted on Loki Liesmith, just as is yours.” She smiles, almost sweetly. “It seems that even Thor’s kindness has its limits. Loki has truly pushed too far, and now he will die for it.” 

     Tony flinches. “No—”

     “You are still fighting my hold on you, mortal?” Amora exclaims, seemingly impressed. “How you struggle so pointlessly—desperately—to aid a murdering trickster. Could it be that you truly—” she is cut off by sharp laughter. “You find this amusing?” 

     “No. It’s just—I’ve always wanted to do this.” Tony finally manages to wriggle enough to reach into his coat pocket, grasping a smoke bomb in his hand. He throws the bomb to the ground, covering his eyes and mouth with his sleeve. The area is cloaked in dark, thick smoke, causing Amora to start and release her magical hold on him.

    Tony crawls blindly, hands flailing madly to reach the case that contains his suit. He knows he has no chance at stopping Thor, or avoiding Amora, without his armor. He halts, starts running in the opposite direction to the temple. He has to get the Norn stones to Loki. They could be his only chance.

      His has just enough time to pocket the stones before he is thrown to the ground by a wave of energy. He rolls, choking on smoke, as Amora’s boot comes crashing down on his chest, pinning him down. Amora stands above him, Loki’s dagger in one hand.

      “I knew that the stones would not lend their power to Loki. But they will bend to my will. I will be the most powerful sorceress in all of the Nine.”

      “If you don’t let me go, Thor will kill him,” Tony exclaims. “I’m guessing you don’t get your reward if Loki isn’t captured alive?”

     “I care not. And I do not bargain with mortals.”

     “Oh, really?” Tony asks. He reaches into his pocket. “Not even for the Norn stones?”

     Amora opens her mouth to retort, when a blinding flash of light halts her. Tony frantically cranes his neck to see Mjolnir held high above Thor’s head, lightning called forth, buzzing and humming around the hammer in an electric embrace. Tony fights with every ounce of strength he has left, twisting out of Amora’s grasp in the confusion and spectacle. He sprints forward.

    The hammer falls. Tony does not realize that the mangled animal cry that bursts forth from his throat belongs to him. In the same instant, blinding pain and pressure pierces his chest, flooding with a warmth that is too close to comforting. He falls, though he is not sure why. His fist closes tightly around the stones.

    “Oh, god—” Tony gasps, hand scrabbling at his chest, across the fresh wound where a dagger protrudes. He breathes rapidly, panicked. He hears the sound of boots thudding against the hard packed snow and ice, hears voices echoing, their words unknown to him, a haze of sound.

    

* * *

 

     Though the light burns his eyes, burns twisting lightning tree branch shapes into his eyes, Loki cannot look away. He watches Thor raise his hammer, watches the clouds shift and darken above them, banishing the snow. He allows himself to acknowledge the elegance of the thing, of the god wielding it. Despite all of Thor’s brutish strength and tactics, his power is a magnificent sight to behold. The air sizzles around him, crackling.

     He feels all of the peace, and all of the resignation, leave him. A figure falls to the ground in the distance. Stark. He smiles bitterly to himself then, in the split second before Thor’s hammer swings down towards him, at his own sentiment. He ducks, summoning all of his magic, covering his head with his arms and bracing himself.

     “Thor, stop,” Loki screams. He grits his teeth, holding fast, as the hammer rockets against the barrier of sorcery he has created. Mjolnir just barely glances off of the energy field, and Loki is send tumbling across the ice, a ragdoll tossed in a storm. He feels his arm break from the force of his landing. He hears Thor roar his name.

     “Stark—” Loki growls. “You idiot.”

     Thor charges toward him. “Loki, why—”

    “Stark is dying.”

     It takes all of his effort to get up again. Running to the figures is a blur of pain, and by the time Thor and Loki stand before Amora, and the crumpled body of Tony Stark, the guards have returned to Amora’s side. Thor falls to his knees by Stark, turning him over as gently as he can. Loki takes one step forward, stooping low, but Amora raises a hand to stop him.

      “You’ll not comfort your mortal, Loki. Not until you surrender to me.”

      Thor brandishes Mjolnir, bolting upright. “Stark yet lives, Amora. He must be taken to a healer at once. You will suffer dearly for this.”

     “I will release Stark to you, Loki, if you agree to imprisonment. All it will take is one spell, one blow to finish him. You have little time to decide. He dies as we speak.”

     “Or,” Thor shouts, “you will release Stark, and I will forget this day and spare your life.”

     Loki laughs humorlessly. “I submit to you, Amora. Heal him.”

     “Brother—”

     Loki turns on Thor, his gaze sharp. “Silence. I have made my choice, Thor.”

     The guards surround Loki at Amora’s request. Loki ignores them. Amora kneels by Stark’s side, and Loki follows suit, watching with careful scrutiny as Amora murmurs words of enchantment, watching as Stark’s skin knits itself together. Stark is pale as the snow, as the whites of his eyes just visible under dark lashes. 

     Loki groans, doubling over, as the shock of Mjolnir’s blows against him shutter through him. He laughs softly to himself. He flicks his eyes to Amora. “I would wish to say farewell to the mortal.” Amora nods, rising.

     Loki leans down, whispering something for Stark’s ears alone to hear. Loki’s hair falls over his face, hiding his words from all else. He guards’ spears encircle him as he stands. Loki eyes them with contempt, before nodding once to Thor. “Thank you, Brother.”

     “Take him away.”

    Loki collapses as the sentries take hold of his arms, unable to hold himself upright anymore. There are gasps of alarm. Loki smiles.

  

* * *

 

      _"Take him away."_

     The stones grow hot against the flesh of Tony’s palms, and he shutters as a wave of energy surges through him. In a flash of light, Thor, Amora, and the swarming mass of armed sentries are thrown from Loki’s side, a dome of rippling energy surrounding them, leaving only Loki and Tony unharmed. Tony cannot breathe. The stones fall from his fingers, sinking into the snow at his feet, sizzling as their heat meets the ice.

     Loki struggles to stand, eyes wide. His hands scrabble over his chest, searching for wounds that are no longer there. His fatal wounds no longer sting, no longer promise relief. “What have you done?”

    “I—I don’t know.” The magical barrier still stands, encircling them with a protective shield. “What happened—I thought—”

     “You were stabbed by Amora’s blade. You were dying. I bargained for your life, in exchange for my imprisonment.”

     “What—”

    Tony watches as a smile twitched onto Loki’s lips. Loki laughs. “A mortal wielded the Norn stones. What was the great and selfless desire that the Norns thought worthy of their power?”

      “I just—I couldn’t let you—” 

     Loki’s smile is a puzzle, not bitter, but not made of mirth either. “Your interference was unwanted, and unneeded.”

    “Thor was going to kill you—”

   “Because I begged him to, Stark. Coward that I am, I would rather have died than face that torment again. I was dying, until you healed me with the Norn stones. You had to be selfless, Stark, like the fool that you are—”

     ”What’s stopping you from running now? Look—you’re free to go—you can come back with us—”

     Loki shakes his head. “And be perused forever? Run and hide until death takes you in a few fleeting mortal years—and then where will I hide? I am out of options, Stark.”

      “S.H.I.E.L.D. can protect you—”

     “I’ve made my choice, Stark.”

    “I’m alive—I’m fine, so there’s no deal—”

    “I dread forgetting. I tried so hard the first time, to hold onto my name, the memories of all the ways that I had been wronged. But those wounds faded in time—so much so that I welcomed Thor’s embrace when he came for me. I had forgotten him—forgotten the wedge that Odin had driven between us. Imagine that—forgetting what drives you—forgetting the one force that keeps you living, fighting, screaming for vengeance. Perhaps I will even forget you, in time, Stark. But I think not.”   

     Loki raises a hand to the air, dissipating the force field around them like smoke into the breeze. “I am content, you see. No one decided this fate for me.”

     “Loki,” Tony snaps, lunging towards him. “There’s still a way to avoid this. You can use the Norn stones—you can disappear. This is bullshit—your whole noble act. You have to fight. You’re giving up your freedom for nothing.”

     “For nothing, Stark?”

     “Yes, for nothing.”

    “I do not agree with you. I told you that you were touched by fate Stark, that your time had not yet been spent. I meant it.” He turns then to Thor, who stands at his side. “Take him to Midgard.”

     Before Tony can protest, the light of the Bifrost engulfs him and Thor, leaving Loki and the cold wasteland of Jotunheim behind.

* * *

 

     Natasha leans across the table, resting her chin on her folded hands. “What did you do then, after Thor took you back?” she presses.

     Tony sighs, running his trembling hands through his matted hair. “I tried to—I tried to assemble the team. Tried to get them to help. And then I came here, when they wouldn’t.” He rolls his shoulders, eyes roaming to the spilled coffee again, counting the drops. “Sorry about breaking in, by the way.” He is not at all sorry. 

    Tony remains deliberately vague on the details. He skips the part where he yelled at his team, told them to get out of the tower, to leave. He skips the part where he trashed everything, locked himself away. He skips the part where he deleted all incriminating footage of Loki from the computers. He had walked in on Cap watching the horrible video Loki had made, disguised as Thor, where he had covered all his tracks. Loki had said that Thor was leaving Midgard, that he was staying in Asgard—had said to tell Jane goodbye. It had been sickening to watch—Loki parading as Thor, making sure that no one would miss him on Earth when he was trapped under the viper in Loki’s place, a distraction.

     “So, what? Will you help me?” Tony asks.

     “Help you how, exactly?” Fury asks, placing both hands on the table. “We do not have the resources, or the death wish, to interfere with an alien country and make demands for a war criminal.”

      Tony stands. “I figured you would say that. The thing is, I’m not really asking. I’ve already hacked into your system, and given false orders to your agents to assemble a list of Asgardian and Chitauri tech taken from the attack on New York two years ago. Like the casket, for example, that Loki stole back from Amora, who stole it from you, who stole it from Loki, who stole it from Asgard a long time ago. I figure I’ll use them as bargaining chips. They’re already waiting for me at Stark Tower.” He makes his way to the door, suitcase armor in hand. “Also, I scrambled your computers, your cameras, and your communication devices, so good luck telling your agents about it.”

      Steve is waiting for him in the Saleen S7 when he storms out of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Tony hurriedly jumps into the car, slamming the door behind him. “Drive,” he says, stopping to look behind him at the agents gathering outside. “Step on it, Cap. Drive like it’s for America.”

     Steve frowns, but peels out with a screech of the tires anyway.

* * *

     “What are you going to do now?” Tony asks.

    “I must return to Asgard. I believe I can still reason with the All-father. I have much to repair in Asgard.” Thor answers, tired. They stand in the hallway outside of Thor’s room, across from Loki’s.

    Tony hands Thor a cardboard box. “Promise me you’ll do this.”

    Thor takes the box, cradles it in his arms. “I do not know if I can. He is not allowed visitors.”

     “Look,” Tony sighs. “Your father said that if anyone wanted to catch the venom in a basin, to protect him, that they could. That’s what I’m doing. That’s what’s in the box. You tell Odin that when you see him.”

      Thor opens the box, peering inside. There is a crudely built basin, made of acid-resistant plastic, engineered by Tony himself to hold the poison on its own, at least for a little while. Beside the basin rests the Snapton stone. Tony, who has worked on the stone obsessively since arriving at the tower, has repaired the stone that was once in pieces. “Tell Loki it’s so he won’t forget. Tell him it’s a reminder that I keep my promises—that we’ll get him out, somehow.”

     “I cannot. You must do this, Stark.”

    Tony feels his heartbeat start to race. He closes his eyes against the wave of panic that washes over him. “I can’t—I can’t see him like that—”

     “Please, Stark. He will not accept it from me.”

     Tony takes a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

    _______________________

     So afraid was Tony that the realm would be like his nightmare that he had not wanted to venture there ever. But it was different, not any less horrific, but different nonetheless. He cannot look at Loki’s face—will not look at him stretched out on the jagged rock, pale and vulnerable and exposed. He sets the stone down by Loki’s side, and Loki, much like in his dream, reaches out to touch him. The gesture is a comforting one, a grateful one, without humiliation or resentment. Loki smiles and remembers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished, at last! Thanks to all who reviewed. I hope you enjoyed this story. :)


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